Tribulation
by TwistedNym
Summary: [Thomas/Maven ,Modern AU Part 2 ] Reconnecting is hard. Even more so if you walked out on the only person you ever loved and everything has changed. The city is slowly turning havoc, with everyone Thomas knows in the middle. His newly build life is crumbling away. And then, of course, there is still his desperate try to make it up to his ex-boyfriend.
1. Ink

**__**_**[This is the sequel to 'some of us die young'.]**_**__**

 ** _[AN]If you don't like needles, half the chapter is about tattoos. Just saying. Also, have a bit lighter stuff and some more interactions. :)  
_**

* * *

"Diana," Shade says, gripping her hand in good-natured mock. "If something goes wrong, you should know-"

"Dude, get down and shut up. Seriously. I haven't even started." Thomas sits on his prepared chair, checking everything for the millionth time. When he's satisfied he shifts his weight and waits. With all the plastic foil and the paper towels, the couch looks like he's preparing a murder. But the first thing he's learned is that it's better to be safe than to be sorry. You got to have a clean work environment. "Not like I kill you."

Farley looks back at Shade in her usual mixture. Like he's something very special and weird at the very same time, but she's used to it by now. In a good way. Like Thomas watches corgi puppy videos. They are so freaking chill together, it's like they are married for fifty years. It's a little unnerving for him. He loves them but sometimes seeing people happy is hurting him. But it's his own fault. Not like he didn't know what would happen if he went away.

There's a bright ray of sunshine falling through the closed blinds. At least inside the apartment, it's not so hot. Fan's working high to keep it cool and low.

He glances over to Farley one last time, but she's just watching. Slipping on the gloves and cleaning everything up he gets to work.

The needle springs alive with a buzzing sound, awakened by the pedal Thomas rests his foot on.

Working on the skin is different than paper for many reasons. First of all, there's the feeling, the way he needs to work with a pencil has nothing in common with the way he works with the needle. A pencil is all messy raw force. A needle is graceful precision.

He can't afford to lose concentration. Every line needs his attention. He appreciates that. With the needle marking skin, there's no second chance.

By now Thomas has worked on several other people and knows how it's done. None of them was, of course, as young and pissy as Cameron, who discovered the stuff and sketches and wouldn't leave it alone. The beginning wasn't so perfect. There's a wonky bat-symbol on his lower leg proving it. He keeps it for shit and giggles, not trying to improve it.

He's started testing on himself, and it gradually became better. His arm is his best work on himself yet, bionic patterns and lines, half senseless like the lines of a sharpie, half machine part. They hug the inner side of his arm, whirl around his wrist and last up to his elbow. Metal under the skin, the image says, strength under weakness. Only took him several days alone all with himself and a need to stop thinking.

He had it covered and protected the last weeks, now it's almost healed. He wonders, for a second, what Maven thinks. He doesn't flash the tattoos around. People would need to see A LOT of him to see most of them. But that kind of people doesn't exist. And if they do, they leave after a day.

So if Thomas isn't showing him, he won't ever see them. And since they don't even text anymore, there is no use in asking anyway.

The needle now grazes Shades skin and after a strained second, he relaxes. "That's not too bad."

"Thanks." Thomas gloved hand grips the machine when he snorts. "But wait until we're going through color. You want a lotta red."

He's not so eager for that. Colour is new. He's not as practiced in it. Still, he doesn't refuse and he watched tons of stuff to make it right.

The equipment ate a lot of money and it isn't even flashy. But it's worth it. It's almost like he's made it, is worth something, of people, trust him enough to lie still and in pain until there's ink forming images on their skin.

His sister tries too. It was her idea, after all. She brought the stuff back after they moved in and urged him to try. He offers to be her canvas from time to time. She's not really an artist but she's patient and Thomas never really liked his body anyway. So what's another failed line or pain? In the end, she does alright and leaves some weird sort of spider on his shoulder that looks like straight out of her retro games.

He's very focused on doing it right. On leaving something perfect. Something his head has invented and his hands carry out. Creating things.

They work in silence. Silence is good. It's healing.

Since the movie incident, hurling hurt and insults at each other, Maven hasn't written a word. Thomas occasionally drops a message or a sketch. He never gets an answer. He thought it would work. But maybe it is not supposed to be.

Silence is good, he tells himself.

He doesn't believe it.

After one or two hours Thomas has done the best he can, for now, outlining and mapping the future of the picture.

He earns a pat and some money he doesn't even want but needs because he couldn't afford all the stuff otherwise.

"For a beginner, you not bad, practice and you can get really good,' someone said when they looked at his work. Maybe one day he's got the time and experience to chase after that.

For now, it remains a hobby. But one that's saving his sanity AND aditionally is fun.

The summer is giving its best to melt them. Scorching them like ants under a magnifying glass. Despite his discontent about his body sometimes, he's deciding to just go with the flow. He's sleeveless, wearing a too big tank top from street rat days. It has some holes and the comic logo on it is almost faded. He can't remember where he got it from. Maybe stolen. Maybe he took it from Maven. Or it was a gift. It doesn't matter anymore. He found it in the plastic bag together with the sketchbook. At least it's not THAT shirt. The shorter the clothes, the better in this heat.

The spider peeks through the strap of his bag, lazy slung over his shoulder. It's one of those simple white cotton things. It's more yellow and brown than white anymore. Someone suggested he should just be creative and draw something on it.

After long pondering, Thomas has decided to show his best work and silence the demands.

The bag has a sad face. Two points and a curve to indicate the mouth. EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE stands over it in his big childish writing.

Thomas has a very strange relationship with the sun that's roasting him right now.

He used to love it as a child. There will always be some parts of him reminded of his childhood and days on the river. But it's a little difficult now that everything in his life is somehow linked to memories of a summer that started with a boy in a blue hoodie.

 **I hope you enjoy the weather.**

It's the shortest of messages. He sends it before he can decide to chicken out.

Of course, there's no reply. He didn't think there would be. After that fight he didn't even want to write anything at all too. But then the guilt and the yearning took over. Even if he's not answering. Maybe someday he will. And then he'll see Thomas never forgot. He'll not wait for a call that does never come.

He picks Cameron off in her usual pissy state. Even with the weather this good she manages to look like it's raining in her shoes. She's wearing faded shorts, showing off her dark skin, and Thomas thinks that she could be pretty if she wasn't so grumpy.

"How's Morrey?" he asks.

She sniffs. "Got shit to do. What's it matter to you?"

She's always rude. He is rather fond of it. At least there's no small talk and no false words, no dancing around. If Cameron Cole hates you, she'll tell you in the blink of an eye.

"Did anyone ever tell you your'e the evil twin, Cookie? "He answers, smiling.

"Fuck you."

That works for other people. Thomas can't count how many people told him to go fuck himself over the years. For a moment he's silent, licking his lips. They taste like the sugary ice cone he just devoured on the way, mixed with the salt from his sweat. Weird.

"Get in the queue. Might take a while."

She hits his shoulder hard with her fist, looking like she wants to rip him apart.

"Ouch," he rubs the spot. And they use 'you hit like a girl' as an insult.

When they sit down on a bench he's reminded of another bench altogether. He checks his phone again. No message. Of course. He can't stop himself from being disappointed again.

"Ugh." Cameron makes a disgusted noise. "Can you stop being such a downer?"

Without hesitation, she leans over and takes his phone.

"Not cool." Thomas tries to get it back. She just leans away.

" _I hope you enjoy the weather._ " She reads out loud. Her eyes take in all the messages as her finger scrolls along the screen. " _How are you? Remember when we_ \- Ugh." Another disgusted sound." Dude, that's like fifty messages. I think that silver asshole is not talking to you. Like ever. Stop being so mushy."

Thomas gives up trying to take the phone back. He just sits there and stares at her long crooked fingers sliding through the well of his pathetic desperation. "I can't."

She's creasing her forehead. "You think he sits somewhere and cries?"

"I'm not crying, you lousy pest." He protests weakly.

By the looks of it, she's had enough of his messages and is switching to his social media. "Dog videos, sketches, how old are you? Fifty? Not even a picture of you."

"I don't know why that matters."

She looks at him like he's a potato. "If the douchebag cares a little, he's looking at your stuff, count on it."

"So what?"

She's losing her patience. He can see it. "Listen, asshat. I'll do you a favor and you stop moping. No fun hanging with you."

With one leap she's jumped over, leaning against him. Under normal circumstances that means either punching or invading privacy. She smells kind of flowery, despite the sweat on her neck. She holds his phone up, camera ready.

"Smile." Her eyes are sharp and they glare at him. Thomas forces his face into the most convincing smile he can offer. "Like you mean it."

He draws up every bit of energy he has to offer and smiles as brightly as he can. As if Cameron just told him the funniest thing in the world.

The phone makes a snapping sound.

"Will do." She confirms and fiddles again on his phone before she hands it back to him.

Thomas stares at the profile picture. He doesn't know how she did it, but he looks...not bad.

He's smiling and she caught him from an angle that makes both of them look good. The sunshine tints the picture in bright light. The hardest to process is that she isn't scowling in the picture. Her expression is neutral, and that's almost a smile for her standards. He's right, she looks pretty when she wants to.

"You know I'm not into girls, right? Specially not when they are little chicken like you." He asks, nudging her. "And he does too."

"Doesn't mean shit. You just wait." She lounges on the bench like a vagabond again, the neutral and careful exposure is gone.

"Okay." he laughs.

"If you send another message," she threatens him. "Another sobbing _I miss you I wanna suck your face_ , I swear I'll kick you so hard in the balls-"

He can't stop laughing again. "I got it, I got it, pumpkin."

He doesn't send another message. He knows she'll make her promise true. No risk he wants to take.

When he lies on his bed that night, his phone rings. The heat makes it hard to sleep in his tiny room, and his sister has stolen the fan. He lies on his mattress, thinking about nothing in particular, chewing on the pencil in his hand.

She IS the evil twin, he thinks when he sees the name on the display.

Thomas takes a deep breath. Waits for a second longer. Stops himself from smiling.

And takes the call.

"Hey, Mave." He's surprised how easy his voice sounds. Because he doesn't feel at ease at all. He's excited, and nervous. And _a_ little _happy. That's irritating._ "What's up?"

"Nothing much."

"Been busy ?" Thomas gnaws on the pencil again, crunching on it. If Maven hears it, he doesn't say anything.

"You could say that." There's the tiniest of sighs, but Thomas jumps to it like a dog guarding his house.

"You ok?"

"Yes." There's static noise, and a moment of silence. "I am sorry, I was not particularly forthcoming the last weeks."

"You were nothing much. A _don't wanna talk_ would have been alright."

"I guess we have that in common now." There's something tired in the way he says it. There's a little guilt pooling in Thomas.  
There are a million things he wants to say but can't.

Too fast, too soon, not again. He's supposed to learn from his mistakes, isn't he?  
For a while, they both just breath and wait.  
Like the other party will stab them at any given second.  
Thomas breaks the silence, finally.

"I liked talking to you again." he dares to say. It's playing with fire, he knows it. "It wasn't like before but...y'know, I missed it. You are important to me."

None of them dares to strive any further into that topic. They are still recovering from the last fight.  
And truth be told, now that he hears Mavens voice, he doesn't want to fight. But his wishes are far from possible.  
All that he can hope for is some leniency. Another try.

He can't really process the words that come out of Maven's mouth next. They sound a little stiff and flustered."You are wearing one of my shirts."

Thomas looks down. He's still wearing it. Sure enough, thinking about it, it's undeniably one of Maven's shirts. It has a freaking comic motive. The wearing has bleached it a little. And that would have been alright if he hadn't been found by the owner.

"No, that's just the same. I bought it." he lies.

"It has the same hole under your right arm it used to have after you took it from me."He remembers a hole in a shirt?

"Eh." Thomas bristles. "I am poor, what can I say. It was with the stuff I left at a friends place. You can have it back if you want to."

As if anyone would want a shabby destroyed shirt. Well except for Thomas. He doesn't need to look to know the shirt he wore on the day that he slept at Maven's house lies on his drawer.

"Keep it." The voice on the other side of the call sounds like he's fighting with words. Like something stuck in the back of his throat. "It suits you better."

Thomas almost drops the pencil. "Thanks, pal."

It's not everlasting love or even forgiveness. But it's something. It means they are back on track.


	2. It's okay

The talks are soft and careful. Even more than before. There's no other compliment and no other emotional talk. It's Thomas cracking jokes and Maven just listening or being his usual self and enduring. At least that attitude hasn't changed. Rare times there's a dry remark or a very sarcastic text that makes Thomas snort. Thomas sometimes takes a picture, of him, of things, just anything he wants to share. There's no questions about the tattoos, though he'd need to be blind no to notice. And if Thomas knows anything it's how observant this blue eyes can be. They still talk in the middle of the night. Sometimes Thomas calls. Most times he answer a phone instead.

They don't ever meet. It's probably for the best. The distance makes it easier. It keeps things the way they are. It does not hurt as much. Thomas doesn't want to relive the moment in the cinema, staring at someone so familiar and so far away, wishing regret and pain away. And the jealousy, of course. Whenever he thinks about the look in Maven's face , the way he held his head and his body , as he looked at Mare Barrow, something in him is tied into a hard knot.

He knows he has no right to be jealous. He has no claim. He has no meaning. He was the one who walked over it all.

This is the best he can hope for. He stays in safe distance. And someday maybe there can be something again.

Their relationship is not unlike the way Thomas regards the process of tattooing.

It's a wound that needs time to heal and to create something lasting and steady, something good and whole.

As long as they don't push and pull at each other as they used to. He doesn't want to think about the yelling and the hissing snaps. Fighting over something so obscure and stupid it doesn't make any sense in retrospect. Pride and fear got the better of him. They still do.

He can imagine it's not so different for Maven.

Only once does he attempt to actually talk it out.

"Y'know, the day I left," he starts. The words are hard and unfriendly in the warmth of his room." I meant what I said. I meant a few days. But every time I wanted to come back I was scared. Because I knew I wasn't good enough."

There is no answer and for a moment he thinks Maven has just ended the call.

"Can't turn back time, I guess." Thomas continues.

"That does almost sound like a decent apology." The answer finally comes and makes Thomas laugh in some sort of tickling hurt.

"I try." Thomas says. "Just wanted to get it out. You oughta know."

He gets on Maven's nerves, he's sure.

There's always something he wants to say at night to that boy.

I miss you. I love you. I'm really sorry.

He knows it would not change a thing and so he doesn't say it.

"Can we be...I dunno. Friends and shit?" he offers.

"Friends and shit?" Maven repeats. There's some mock in his voice.

 _I guess there is some irony in it I offer friendship now when I couldn't deal with it when he called me his best friend._

"Ah, forget it." Thomas whispers, hugging himself.

"No," the voice on the other side says and makes something in Thomas chest flutter. "I don't have many friends. I could use one. So yes. Be my friend."

"Cool."

"Just don't.. disappear again."

There is some of that hurt slipping through. Thomas swallows and grasps the phone hard. For a second he can't breath from the guilt. Then he puts on his best impression and snorts.

"Please, I am responsible now. Doing adult stuff."

And so they are friends, it seems. He doesn't know if it's the right decision but now the words are out and they can't be taken back. Such is the nature of words.

He avoids any concerts or even being close to some place Barrow or his brother could pop up. He's pretty sure he'd have a lot of explaining to do. He's not too keen for that.

He has a little emotional throwback one night, scrolling through the news and staring at Elara Merandus face. It leaves a very bad taste in his mouth. She must have been pretty satisfied when he walked out. He can even imagine that sharp smile and it makes him irrationally angry.

He carries on with his life as usual. There's little things to do, things he never had to take care of as long as he lived with his mother. Cleaning, cooking , laundry. He was a spoiled boy in that matters. Street rat days taught him the value of that, and now that no one is doing it for him no more, Thomas finds cooking isn't half bad and cleaning is alright if you need to occupy your hands.

He doesn't want to be lazy. Sure his small room looks a little chaotic. But that is artistic freedom. The rest of the tiny kingdom is in place and perfectly fine.

They share the work. Thomas isn't good with laundry. He stuffs it all in. No head for the details. It confuses him when his sister freaks out about it. He ruins one of her dresses. It used to be white. Now it's grey, ugly and sprinkled.

His sister bakes. Coming home to the smell of fresh bread or burnt sugar is making the worst day a little better. And though the weather stays sunny the days can be very dark. He's never found himself remarkably handsome, but sometimes Thomas dislikes himself so much he cannot look straight at his reflection. It's too thin, his nose is too big. The weirdest are his scarred and calloused hands. Not hands of an artist. Not at all. He forces himself to look and it works. If he's really troubled he just looks at the tattoos. They are never ugly to him.

Sometimes he's just tired. He throws himself on his mattress and stares at the ceiling, until he finally falls asleep.

The smell of the bread helps at least in part.

Moving in with her was the best decision he ever made. And he made a lot of bad calls in his life.

She's up and away mostly. Their schedules collide and she works all day, making most of the money and paying most of the bills. She's smart but she doesn't get the job she deserves. Because she's a woman, for starters. But also, and that's the point, even if you lea the Stilts behind and move into the better part of town. You are a filthy red and they know. They look at you and they will let you know too.

After all the talks and the hate he knows it's true. And he sees the way that people he loves bristle and snarl over it.

Cookie Cameron for instance hates silver people with all her soul and he doesn't want to know what they did to her to imprint such a loathing in her. She's after all still so young. That she doesn't flip her shit everytime he pesters her with his emotional baggage considering Maven is a miracle.

That Farley didn't shove him away too after he told her is a small wonder in itself, regarding her agenda. But then again she never really recruited him. She was just there by coincidence and they liked each other enough to care.

The women in my life, Thomas concludes very proudly. Are kickass and awesome. And I am a whining boy not half as good to deserve their attention.

But they stick with him. As long as they want to. He can see the worth in that.

Living alone has it's perks. He feels in control of the situation. He feels like he finally has a home. It's not the place per se. And it will never be a person again. It's the feeling of letting go and falling. Of landing and not fearing.

It's the feeling when there is silence but the silence welcomes one to fill it with noise.

Noise of clattering pots, of gas forming a blue flame to cook.

Noise of strange electronic music and a female voice singing so wrong along Thomas holds his belly with laughter.

He's never really had a normal life until now, always wanting something small. And so he's alright with this. For the most part.

As much as Thomas likes his current situation, the situation around him is not so great.

The city is turning hostile slowly. There are parts of town he would not walk at night because it would mean trouble. And that night in the alley would seem like a friendly cuddle in comparison.

He doesn't dare to move near the skyscrapers or up the hills. He's aware of the increased security measures. And of the way protests work. His friends and acquaintances are awfully busy and there's almost every week at least one report about some sabotage or vandalism.

As it is, he's done with mingling among them. Not just because he's a coward. But his father's words never left him alone. He had a second chance and he wasted his time. He can kind of understand street rat Thomas reasoning. He's still not on best terms with the old man and sometimes it's downright impossible to talk to him. He never approved of anything he did. But now it's nagging all the way. Thomas ruins his body (have you seen it? Not much to ruin, he thinks) with this ink. He's not going to be able to find a good job or finish school .Thomas is a dreamer because who would have ever heard of a famous red artist? At least the gay question is replaced with blissful ignorance, as if Thomas is a single cell organism. It's tiresome at worst and amusing at best.

Reading the news is always like watching a reality show. It can't be happening, right? People just pretend. What a shitshow.

It gets worse when the cops stop a protest and beat a lot of people half to death. Even more get arrested.

Even in his little bubble of safety Thomas feels there's something really bad coming slowly.

There will be blood. And it's not going to end well.

He remembers the way Tristan waved the gun around and it sits wrong on his spine.

He worries but when he catches Shade or Farley they are awfully ambiguous. It's pissing him off. Everyone is over the top friendly to him. Like he's a baby.

"Dude, you let me stick a needle into you, "Thomas protests one day, tired of the shit. " Lemme know what's going on."

"I promised not to." Shade says. " Just don't wander around town as you used to."

"Eh," he makes in disgust. " I know I call you Mom and Dad sometimes. Because it's like that, you're my weird rebel parents. And you fed me when I was starving and fresh on the streets. Still don't. Don't pull this shit."

"You got your life on track, "Shade says friendly enough but it rubs Thomas the wrong way. "Just leave it alone. You always hated what we did."

"Eh," Thomas repeats because he doesn't have a comeback for the truth. "Please don't be stupid. I need you, Dude. Gotta finish my work on your shoulders."

He calls sometimes. It rings excruciatingly long and then a mechanical voice says very friendly:

"Hello, no one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone."

The next day he reads about a molotov cocktail and a burning store, a graffiti or something violent.

He never leaves a message.

Work's as tedious and boring as it always was. At least the view is as grumpy as always.

Cameron gets into more fights recently. Lucky enough she wins most of them. Not that he has any doubts about that.

Still.

First he gives her shit for it. Then he worries. The next thing he knows he offers her to move in.

She doesn't budge. He knew she wouldn't.

"Must be something in the water, " he says to her. "You people are all freaking weird."

The messenger has a video option.

Thomas watches the button as if it is a monster biting his hand.

It's the third time this night his hand is resting on it, the tiniest of distance between pushing it or letting go. One twitch of his finger. One little push.

He's lonely with all his friends busy. And friends do Chat with each other, right? Especially when they don't see each other often in person.

Nothing weird about it.

 _Yeah , lie to yourself, Thomas, you know what you do._

It's just through the screen. It can't hurt him, can it?

It's silly. They talk all the time. They text and sent pictures. There's absolutely no reason he should be freaked out by it. But he is. Because hearing a voice is one thing but talking face to face another. What if he's a jerk again? He's not going to fix it this time. With nothing.

He braces himself with a long breath and finally pushes the damn button that looks like a camera.

Maybe no one will answer. He should just hang up. It's too late anyway. He hasn't answered one text today so he's either sleeping or busy. That was a stupid idea.

As the reasons flurry through the room like a flock of birds send flying the screen turns black for a second and then there's a face in the dim light.

Maven wears a suit. Thomas supposes one could think he looks good, all groomed and dressed up. Not entirely wrong. For Thomas he always looked good, the suit is outlandish but it's fancy and his eyes are bright blue on the screen. But Thomas knows the truth without even trying. Behind that Maven looks like a demon ate him and spit him out of the abyss, too pale, too big dark rings under his eyes.

If someone ought to recognize it it's Thomas.

He's talked through endless nights on the phone, hearing him breathe and whisper until the fatigue finally claimed him.

"You busy?"

"I just came home." The background moves and the image shakes slightly.

Thomas sees himself in the screen. The raggedy shirt, the too long hair, arm half resting behind his head, it's the exact opposite.

He smiles slightly.

Some things don't change.

"I can try again later." Thomas offers.

" Just a moment." With a rustling sound the phone gets placed on some table or drawer. Thomas gets a short look at the same room he remembers. There's the blasted bed he spend the night in before he left.

It's like a bus rolls over him. The bus is on a guilt trip to the destination hopeless.

Oh boy was he wrong when he thought it can't do any harm.

He blinks and uses the break to catch himself before there's anything on his face that could betray it.

The next moment there's a white sleeve and when the camera shakes again he sees Maven's face again. He's put his headphones on and has gotten himself rid of the tie and the jacket.

Thomas avoids his eyes to wander any further than the collar. He's definitely not peeking at the small open gap and a collar bone, remembering leaning against that body and letting his arms snake around it.

"Long night?" he asks instead.

A small indifferent hum. "You could say that."

Thomas smiles again. "Sure looks like it. At least good food?"

There's the slightest shadow of a smile. "Seafood."

"Ewww." Is the most disturbed sound Thomas can muster.

For the slightest of moments the world has backpedalled a few months and they are sharing some genuine amusement. It's gone again as fast.

"You ok?" it's the least he can offer.

Maven shifts on his seat and leans back, eyes evading the screen.

"Why would I not be?"

"Just checking." Thomas lies as smooth as he can. " Didn't answer my texts."

"Simply no time." Maven lies back. He does it way better than Thomas ever could. Only the tired lines on his face betray him.

"Shit happens." And it's just continuing to happen. Thomas looks away.

For a while the flickering dim lights and the static noise is the only thing between them.

"I meant to ask something."

"Hm?" Thomas makes and leans back, sprawled along his pillow.

The eyes stare intently at something on Thomas side of the screen ."That thing on your arm is real, isn't it?"

Thomas lifts his arm, dark patterns sprawled on his tanned skin and rolls his eyes. "Nah, I draw it on my arm every time I decide to show my face to you."

"You used to do weirder things when you were bored." He didn't meant to say it and they both don't want to go there. Even through a screen the tension runs through their bodies. There's resistance and it's hard as stone.

Thomas decides to take a turn in the topic.

"Yeah but I am not doing this now because I'm bored. I love this stuff. It's kinda like people have a piece of me, and they wear it proud, like there's nothing better.' He sighs. " It feels cool and makes people happy. I am getting GOOD at something, Mave. I am never good at stuff."

There's something very bitter twitching on the thin line of Maven's mouth.

They both know what he's thinking.

 _Yeah, you always told me I had potential._

He tries to get the conversation on shallow water again.

It works, for a while.

They are both tired, but no one wants to be the one to cut it.

"Try catch some sleep, yeah?" Thomas asks when he can barely stay awake and his battery is suffering the fate of dying.

There's the longest of pauses, a pale face in the cone of a small light, tousled hair and a frown.

"Good night, Thomas."

"Night."

When it's over Thomas rubs his face and wonders why it doesn't work. Why it's not enough. Why he can't just stop his head and be friends.

* * *

 _ **Hey, it's okay if you're not okay right now**_  
 _ **You have plenty of time to figure it out**_  
 _ **There'll be skies as blue as your eyes and grass as soft as your nose**_  
 _ **And I'll tell you all of the things I love about you**_  
 _ **I'll tell you about all the times that I've smiled because of you**_  
 _ **And you'll realize**_  
 _ **It's okay if you're not okay right now**_

 _ **[Cavetown- It's okay]**_


	3. Speed the collapse

"What do you mean with gone? He's always gone." Thomas tries to sound calm and casually. He did not expect the call. He avoided thinking about her.

He still answered when Made Barrows name popped up on his phone.

They never were really close, but at least they had some sort of friendly thing going on since the day he stopped her hand from getting caught while stealing. And the fact she's calling him when her brother is missing adds to it. If this was about Maven he would have faked static noises and ended the call like a child. It's not her fault. None of it. He's an idiot, that's all.

He leans on one of the tables at work, already packing his bag. Cameron's been gone for a while and not one customer is ever going to show up.

"He wrote a message. And that was a week ago. It sounded like he..." he can hear her hesitation to open up a little and say it. "Look, you are friends, I thought he told you."

"He's like that. "Thomas brushes her off but he feels cold. All the secrecy this past week. The way they avoided him.

The violence and the freaking trouble.

 _I thought this was over, but it never even started._

"You tried the trusty Captain? Farley, I mean."

If he could see her, he knows, she'd hold her back straight and her head high, and she's not telling him all the truth. There's a tense silence between them.

He bites his lip. Then he makes the most pissed off sound he's able to provide.

"Barrow, I am done with secret shit. No one tells me anything. Join the club and keep it for yourself or spill it. I'm gonna call if I hear something." He promises.

There's nothing much to say. She's got answers and the boy he loves.

Winning this time, he thinks, bitter. But for how long?

Despite his jealousy, he 's finding himself in no position to dislike her. Sure he's pissed. But that's just going against everything at the moment.

And so they part again.

His worn out boots are still the same he possessed on the homeless days, just even more ruined.

Now they stumble along streets slowly turning into a war zone, with danger written on walls and hanging in the air.

No one is home.

He sits on her doorstep like he did so many times. Making himself small and being tired.

The sun sets.

She's still not back.

It gets dark.

He's playing with his phone, pretty spooked by the sounds around him.

When she finally comes back he stares at her.

"Hey Mom," he jokes half-heartedly. "Forgot my keys."

Her short hair is damp in the small lights and her pants are dirty like she crawled through the sewers. She glances down at his form, leaning before the entrance, illuminated by the white screen of his phone.

"Go home, Thomas." Is all she says. She sounds tough, always, holding herself up like a soldier.

"Yeah, no. " He refuses to make space.

"Thomas, go home." She repeats, with every bit of authority she has to offer, towering over him. He flinches a little, irritated.

"At least lemme know you're ok."

"I am okay." She says. "But you won't if you don't go home right now."

It's not a threat. She's tougher than him but he knows she wouldn't hurt him if he did not really, really deserve it.

It's a warning.

He takes her warnings very seriously.

"Please don't get yourself killed." He says, standing up. "I'd kinda miss you."

"I will try." Her hand touches his shoulder and he can't stop thinking she just said goodbye.

There are stitches in his heart opening again. He thinks of street rat Thomas and that guy that did not even know him but bailed him out regardless. That was friendly and funny and cared. He thinks of the times Farley's car pulled on some parking lot or how often he crashed at her place in the middle of the night. She never asked any questions. She fed him and kept him warm when he was sick and she didn't take shit from him.

It's warm but he's shaking when he leaves the staircase.

When people were busy before they are vanishing right now. He thought he had his downs.

It must be something in the summer air and the heat driving people crazy.

A few days later his phone rings in the dead of night. He knows only one person calling that early.

"HM?" Thomas makes and licks his dry lips.

"Are you at home?" No hello, just a voice that sounds strained and hurt. And angry. He didn't know Maven could sound so strange. Like a wounded predator, snarling.

"Eh, yeah?"

"Would you..Can I come around?" There's something in Maven's voice that isn't to his liking at all. It takes a moment before Thomas can process the words.

"I just woke up." He stretches, blinking."Gimme a moment."

He shoves the phone away, searching for a shirt that doesn't smell like old grease or sweat. In the end, he only finds the tank top that once belonged to Maven. Eh, who cares. Matches the too big pants at least.

"Something wrong?" Thomas sniffs and pushes his hair out of his face.

He doesn't really expect an answer.

By now Thomas is master of rhetorics questions.

Maven looks like shit. Thomas has no other description for it. His hair is wild and tangled, his eyes are red and his clothes crumbled.

"You look pretty terrible. "Thomas offers in sympathy. "Wanna come in and talk?"

There is something wild and hurt lurking behind that blue eyes.

Thomas just rubs his head and makes some space for the ghost of the boy he loved.

He doesn't fit in the room. Even miserable and like a drowned cat, he looks deranged in the poorly lit orange painted kitchen. Maybe that's how it is. He'll never fit in Thomas life. As if he hadn't always known that. The kitchen isn't only the center of the flat but also the biggest room Only a little bigger than the broom closet that is Thomas bedroom. Thanks to the gas stove , the table and the fridge it looks stuffed. The shelves are bursting with stuff. There's a mushroom poster on the door of the drawer and a lot of notes and papers on the fridge, stuck with bright magnets. None look the same. They are mostly plastered with Thomas lanky writing, big letters that hang on the paper like a fourth grader has written them, smearing over too much space .

The gas on the stove flickers alive, blue and hot. Thomas leans next to it and tries to process what's happening, watching water boil.

For a while Maven just sits hunched on the chair and watches Thomas on the stove.

"We're still friends, right?"

There's so much desperation in his voice he might as well drown in it.

Once upon a time, Thomas would have been hurt by the assumption all they could ever be was friends. But that was before he decided he wants to be back in that boy's life no matter the hurt and no matter the cost. Being friends is better than nothing.

 _Beggars can't be choosers._

Thomas told himself he was back on track to pursuing something with Maven. Maybe really just make it up somehow. In truth, all that ever mattered was to hear him say he loved him all the time. But that is stupid and straight out of a fairytale. The moment he saw them in the theater he knew that admiration.

He agreed to be a friend.

He should at least try.

"I hope we are." Thomas looks over and smiles. He wants to hold his hand into the flame just to stop this wrong smile from spreading further. "Or else I'd wonder why you sit in my kitchen at the dead of night."

Thomas takes the full cups and places them on the table. His contains a pile of sugar. Some of it sticks to the brim of the cup, glazing it.

"Spit it out." Thomas urges, lounging on his chair, legs crossed.

He doesn't.

Thomas takes the spoon out of his cup and licks it, a fat and disgusting pile of sugar on it that won't dissolve in it anymore.

And he waits.

The clock over the fridge makes a rhythmic ticking beat, matching Thomas' heart.

Ah, he'll not go through with it, Thomas thinks, and there's something very wrong and not at all relaxing in the way they stare at each other.

When he finally speaks it's not about anything Thomas has anticipated. He is prepared for family trouble, knowing a share about complicated relationships, and he's not half bad with them right now.

"When you said I was in love with Mare Barrow," Maven starts and there's a tiny precious part of Thomas that hopes Maven will deny it. _When you said I was in love with her, you were wrong._ But he knows it will not happen. Not in the way Maven anchors himself on the chair, holding the cup and not even attempting to keep the cold façade on. "You were right. I feel…drawn to her, to say the least."

For the tiniest of seconds, Thomas' hand stops. Then it takes the cup again. Suddenly the tea tastes bitter and stale. Like it's adapted to heartbreak itself.

"No shit," Thomas mutters but stops himself from going further down that road.

Who would have thought the boy he loves would want relationship advice from him? If anyone is terribly bad and useless at that it's Thomas and Maven should know better. Maybe he does. There's something Thomas can't put his finger on but he's too familiar with. About the shit look and the hunched back. For now, he can't do anything. Just listen. Maybe there is something more. Maybe THomas still has the most wishful thinking and hopes the boy is still lying like he always does, cloaking truths behind smaller ones.

Maven buries his face in his hands. "This feels wrong. I should not be discussing this with you."

Thomas smirks like he used to when he bluffed confidence. A tiny crack in a mirror, an irritating confident expression to get under someone's skin.

"Who else would know better about your dorkiness and your problems with feelings?"

Maven scoffs softly. "Truer words have never been spoken."

Thomas toasts in mock and drinks again to stop himself from saying something they will both regret.

"She was nice to me. When I was alone. " Maven says. "She made me laugh. And I think I am not just grateful."

"Well, that's not good."

Hurts, he thinks, doesn't it? To want something you can't have?

Nothing can ever be easy.

Maven loves Mare, Thomas loves Maven and Mare?

"Seems she's with your brother. They are not bad together."

Maven looks at him as if Thomas just told him the sky is blue. "I know."

"Well, I ain't Barrow, so I don't know what's her take."Thomas shrugs. " Just thinking your brother always was a good guy."

Something about that changes the look he's giving Thomas. There's some sort of anger and hurt, biting. It's really not pretty. It's as soon gone as it was there.

"Listen, pr-' If you call him pretty boy now, you'll not help yourself. "pretty sure you 'll have to spill the tea at some point. You hang out with her. Tell Barrow and figure it out together. She's a good one." And because it's true he adds:"She's not me."

There's a very long look. It glides along his skinny frame, collarbones standing out, down his shoulders and along the arm, resting on the tattoo curling up his wrist.

The eyes wander down again, Thomas feels a very unwelcome feeling in his stomach, heat rising and heart fluttering. The eyes find his ankle and lower leg peeking out where the too big pants leg of his have slipped up, presenting the wonky bat-symbol.

"She's not." Maven says.

"You stare at me like you never seen me." Thomas huffs to keep himself from mistakes.

"I haven't. Not like this." Maven leans on his hand, still tracing Thomas form, but frowning a little now. " You've got your life in control. It's something I wasn't sure I would ever see."

"Yeah. Street rat Thomas was filthy and an idiot." He agrees.

"Only a little." There is a gleam in the eyes. "Filthy, I mean."

An older, past vision of Thomas leans over the kitchen table and kisses him. The present version snorts and drinks, feeling like he was stabbed in the gut repeatedly.

"Thank you, Thomas."

"Yeah, just don't mention it." Thomas looks at the clock.

Well, he ain't going to sleep anytime soon and he's got work in the early afternoon. And needs to do other things in the morning. The pedal of the tattoo machine is blocking and if he doesn't find out why he can forget working with it any time soon. Because of he sure as hell can't afford a new one.

Then he looks at Maven's hunched over form.

He cannot just leave him to himself. That boy is no good to himself all alone.

"Wanna see my room?"

Thomas spends a lot of time alone in the tiny space. It looks like him. There's his mattress with too many bright colored pillows, the drawer, old and scratched, wood. The tattoo machine rests on it in its bag, and thankfully it hides the shirt, still carelessly lying around.

Not like Thomas expected visitors this night.

The small free space of the wall is plastered with sketches, notes. Maven's eyes wander over the rough forms of animals, hands, and patterns. Some of the will never be finished. Some are just good the way they are. Maven stares especially on the Phoenix and Thomas remembers the one he drew a summer ago.

Pictures have snuck between them.

One of his family, one with Farley and Shade, and the newest addition the one with Cameron. He doesn't even know why he made the effort to print it out.

Maybe she's just very important to his frail balance in life. He can't deny it after all the times they have hung out and the way she spitefully protected him.

He realizes despite all the hours Thomas spend with Maven he never had one picture of him.

"I know, not much."

Maven huffs and stares at the pile of clothes on the floor.

"This is so you."

"Is that good or bad?"

Instead of an answer, he gets the shake of a head.

"I should go."

"You can," Thomas says helplessly drawn like a moth to the flame. "Or stay and tell me what's really bugging you. You didn't come to talk about Barrow. That was just convenient."

"How would you know?"

"Known you, "Thomas shrugs. "and seen you had it bad way before her."

There's something pondering and hesitating in the way Maven's head tilts.

"You can sleep in my bed." Thomas offers, and realizes that's probably not the most attractive reason. " You need some peace, dude. I'll crash on the floor or in the kitchen."

He can smell the protest before it's even spoken out loud.

"No, no." Thomas stops him. "Slept way worse than on the ground. Homeless, remember?"

He's surprised and worried by the answer. "I don't want to be alone."

Thomas thinks of the way he curled together on the stones in the cold, shaking and lost.

"Yeah, I understand that."

They lie back to back, and Thomas is sure he'll explode with every breath next to him. He presses himself against the wall as if his life depends on it (it does. In some way.) and wishes to melt into it.

"You're out of the loop, Mave." He dares to say into the depths of the night. "Is this about your family?"

"Maybe. I am not sure." There's something nervous and twitching in the answer, and Thomas feels tendrils of another darkness creep through the blanket and making Thomas shiver.

"You need to figure it out," Thomas whispers back. " I'm no expert, maybe you should just-"

"No," there is cold aversion at the mere thought. "I'm done with people telling me I am wrong. I don't need to talk about the way my father ignores me or how my brother is the better person. I don't need them. I am not weak, and I won't-"

"Dude, remember how you told me I should go home and talk it out with my family? This is the same. You matter. And people don't make you weak." Thomas cuts him off, sharply. "Who'd say shit like that?"

There's no answer.

 _You'll never be enough, boy,_ he suddenly thinks.

Oh no. Thomas is far from willing to go there.

"I don't know what's happening in your head. But just...I dunno. I'm a little scared."

There's a sharp breath shattering something between their bodies. "I scare you?"

"Oh please, " Thomas forces himself to stay calm. "Fuck no, I am scared for you."

There's nothing more left to say. None of them tries to move on the too small floating island of the mattress.

Maven sleeps until afternoon like he's dead, and Thomas doesn't attempt to wake him. He just does things that afford little attention, staying close and watching. A number he doesn't recognize has attempted to call him three times in the morning. When he tries to call back no one answers. He hopes it's nothing serious. But people know where he lives if they need him. Or they'll call again. He hopes.

The empty apartment comes to mind and he feels so down he just stares at Maven's sleeping form for a moment, trying to force his body to function.

When Maven finally wakes up he's still drowsy and doesn't move much.

"Your mother called. Like twenty times. Cal too." Thomas says, daring to be a little noisy.

There's little to no reaction to that.

"I texted him. Told him you were with me and you're..not hurt." Thomas thinks of the hurling questions and snapping answers as if he just had dragged Maven out of his house and duct taped him in a trunk. "Funny. He thought you were still mad at me."

Not like he isn't used to being a dirty secret.

"Wanna have some breakfast?"

Maven stares at his phone, like he's hungover and just woke up in the strangest place.

"It's almost two."

Thomas shrugs. "Lunch then. Whatever. Food is food."

"I am not hungry." He's making no attempt to leave the bed. Thomas takes the pedal he wants to check off the drawer and quickly shoves the blasted shirt away and out of sight."Don't you have to work?"

Another shrug. He's not turning around, fiddling with the machine. "Called in sick. And even if they fire me, who cares? My best friend hangs around there, but she'll just move along to annoy me."

"The girl on the picture?"

"Forgot you know the others from Barrow. Yeah, that one. Tough cookie."

"She's pretty, I suppose."

Doesn't mean shit, just wait, he remembers Cameron say.

I owe her another terrible concert, he thinks. When this whole shit town calms a little.

"Yeah you tell her once, "Thomas says, mocking, thinking of her mean right. "Don't wanna see the day people try to hit on Cameron Cole."

Something in the way Maven leans forward is suspicious curious. "Cole, you say?"

Thomas draws his eyebrows together. " Know her?"

"Never met her." Maven assures him and it's not a complete lie.

"She hates you, by the way," Thomas informs him, pushing the pedal up and down, feeling the resistance behind the smooth mechanism. Probably just needs to be cleaned for starters. "But that's just how she's always. There's a chocolate chunk hidden in that cookie."

His hands get to work and he stares at the calloused fingers in disgust before he concentrates on doing his job.

"Found the problem?" Maven's voice asks.

Thomas breathes deep.

"Maybe, need to take it piece by piece, clean it, but it's older stuff so I need to be careful or else-" when he turns his head his nose almost collides into Mavens' face, leaning over his shoulder. For the longest of seconds, he's just staring. Get a grip, he tells himself." It falls apart. Can't afford a new one."

"I have no clue about any kind of mechanics. That was always-" Maven stops himself.

"Don't worry, I'll get around somehow." Thomas tries to reassure him before he gets back to the piece of metal in his hand. Maven watches him silent. For a while, they just sit on the floor and don't talk.

When he finally is all alone again he can't really say what's going on.

Everything is falling apart.

Everything he tried to keep or retrieve.

He can't hold it together. Thomas is sure he can't stop. Maybe he'll die trying. He attempts to call the stranger's number again. A part of him hopes it's his weird rebel parents. That one of them picks up and they'll have a good laugh.

Some small and unimportant reason.

He knows better and no one answers.

The next day at work Cameron doesn't show up until the evening.

She looks terrible.

Her hair is dirty and there's dried blood on her face.

Thomas almost drops his back.

"Shit." is the only thing his mouth mutters and makes a step forward.

"I called you, asshole," she says, and there's something in her voice he never thought he would hear. She sounds tired. "I stole a phone and fucking called you. You didn't even come to work."

"What happened?"

"What do you think?!"

It's the second time this day he sees that hurt look, limping and weak under the surface of the sharpest razor blade.

So neither Shade or Farley called him.

And he let his best friend down too.

"Shit." He repeats, wanting nothing more than to curl into a tight ball." Come on, let's get the fuck away from here. You can punch me if it helps."

" S'not the same if you want it." She scoffs.


	4. Come undone

"They don't pay us what we deserve," the man on the podium says. "They don't treat us like human beings. They lock us in like dogs. They say the agreement will make our lives better but can you be sure? Can you be sure people up there go through with it? There's banks and corps and they hold the money and the power and they as might as well be our government. We're trash, always have been low class for them. I say this is enough." There's a murmur going through the room, very low but agreeing.

Thomas licks his lip, tasting the air like a snake. This isn't good at all. People here are drunk and they are pissed.

That guy's not making things better. It's adding wood to the pyre.

He regrets coming here.

The room is crowded and the ground is dirty, littered with glass and cigarettes. There's dim white light shining from the ceiling, illuminating a door and the old makeshift podium.

Fancy words, a younger version of Thomas would have told everyone willing to listen, just to cloak his uneasiness. Meaning shit.

Present Thomas knows better than to even say one thing. He tries his best not to listen. Thomas was always a coward.

At least he's either stupid or desperate enough to hang around this place

Yeah well. He didn't come for speeches. Hoped he'd see a few friends. Anyone remotely friendly, even.

Despite the warning, he can't let it go.

He's done with being coddled and held into darkness, just because of some secret bullshit.

And what even worse, he misses them so much it makes the last stitches holding his heart save in place come undone. He thinks of all the times he's just sat on the couch and stole their food or cracked a joke so bad anyone else would have moaned in pain. They never pressured street rat Thomas into anything, like he was a wild animal, gaining his trust by just staying and holding the hand in an offer. He pushed and bit often enough, but they were steady and smart and better people.

"They shot a boy last week. A **BOY**." The voice swells. "Because he had a cellphone in his pockets and was too close to the fence." There's some nervous shift, like a wave. Media tries to play it down mostly, but the internet makes it easy to follow events like that. Self-defense? No, people scream in caps lock. **MURDER**. Thomas thinks of the face. Ugly and freaking sad thing. It leaves a bitter taste to think about it. He got no gun. He was just there. People are always just there and get hurt.

"He was just waiting for someone. But they found his loitering suspicious! You think he was the first? They tase and shoot and lock us up all the time. How long until they lock up the Stilts? How long until they shoot YOUR brother? Your father? Your husband?"

Funny thing, he thinks, oppression makes one adapt the enemies propaganda. Fear is universal. Doesn't matter what color your blood has.

Not that little people deserve what is coming for them. He's not stupid or evil enough to think anything in this world is fair.

But Thomas is a little biased, probably has to do with the fact he used to kiss one of the enemies. Oh, if they knew they'd lynch him.

Suddenly he's very happy he was always a secret and never an official. Who knows how they would have twisted him to fit their narratives. The thought makes him chuckle darkly.

Thomas feels sick in the sticky air. He can't breathe. He feels sweaty and nervous. This place is no good. He always hated the small discussions at Farley's. And he never liked crowded places very much. Not like Maven, who'd internally freak out, but still, not his favorite. People are not themselves in crowds. They are like a flock of birds, not able to see through the haze, fluttering around and getting panicked. Crowded places mean fewer spaces to squeeze through and less space to run. Sure thing, he wouldn't want to run away right now. It's so disgustingly stuffed in here he's sure there'd be panic and trampling fear if something happened.

"Politics won't solve this! You know it!"

He still shifts through the crowd.

There is no one. Sure, once or twice he stumbles over a vaguely familiar face and there's that one guy he's associating with the worst hangover ever. But that's not what he looks for. He's not looking for friendly banter and small talk (he's still awful at that). He's not here for any other cause than his loneliness. He can't and won't participate in this shitshow.

He wishes himself back in his bed for a moment. Because this is useless.

After an hour of wandering, he decides to take his leave. No one will show up. The next morning there's a video, shared on social media.

There are fire and gunshots ringing through darkness and people being dragged over the street. The small cone of the camera shakes. There are voices and motion in the dark, only faintly illuminated by headlights from a car. The asphalt is splattered with red blood.

Thomas stares at the image and can't believe he lucked out. Blood is freezing in his veins, making him shiver.

The danger is kissing his skin, and his old pal trouble leaves the coppery taste of blood in his mouth when he gnaws on his cheek.

Now he's glad no one he knows was there.

But that wasn't even the real deal. He thinks of the pictures someone made, with people getting sprayed and beaten and he's freaking scared for a moment.

How much more? He thinks. Sleeping outside must be freaking terrible at the moment. He knows it was scary enough without patrols and riots and violence.

He's thinking of Cameron and her brother, sleeping somewhere outside. He hasn't seen Morrey for a while and Cameron doesn't talk about him. He hopes there's nothing wrong and she's just her bullshit self.

She won't budge and just brushes him off in her usual brusque way when he offers her to crash at his place for a while.

"Bad enough I babysit you every day, asshat," she huffs out a stream of defeated air. The heat and the violence are drawing on her strength as much as everyone else's.

His head hurts when he attempts to sort anything out. At first, he's still trying to be casual and do whatever regular people need to do on daily basis. But he can't pretend for long. He's irrationally angry and worried.

It sits on his chest like a little goblin, kicking and cackling.

It's like people forget he isn't made of stone. Thomas is nice. Thomas is patient. Thomas has his shit together now.

Well, guess again. Thomas is losing that shit.

Control is seeping through his fingers slowly like sand.

And who cares really?

There's nothing for him here.

And _no one_.

Since the night they sat in the kitchen he gets the most ambiguous and shady message about being busy.

Lie again, Mave, Thomas thinks. You do it so well.

He wouldn't even mind being discarded and thrown away. But he cares too much. He's worried. He remembers the feverish energy and the hurt look and that voice. I don't want to be alone. There's something inherently not alright with that boy. He knows it. It's probably been there for a long time, and Thomas knows his share about demons inside your head. Enough to see the way it worms itself through his pretty head. He saw some of it when they met, saw the frown and the fear and the panic, the way he couldn't stand some things, but it's gotten worse over time. By now he's something else, and Thomas said the truth when he told him he was scared.

He needs help. Not from Thomas, because Thomas can barely help himself. Hell, every morning Thomas looks in a mirror he has to tell himself he's a human, and not some snail, that he's not that bad of a person and can be okay. But if he comes around, what's there to do but give it a shot? Friends do that, right?

Not that he does come around again. Strange. The mattress feels too big without him, and being alone hurts.

He gets insufferable until he snaps at every person even glancing his way. He remembers what he said to Maven once.

 _I'm the best at pissing people off._

The weirdest thing is that he doesn't even flinch. He wants it to go wrong. Something in him is so out of balance it wants a fight only to feel something else than boiling hot pain burning his soul.

"You're an idiot." Cameron scoffs. "Least were a nice idiot til now."

"Yeah, nice doesn't mean shit in this world, Cookie." He mutters.

Thomas falls into the bad habit of staying out at night again. He's dirty and smelling of smoke and alcohol when he returns. Someday, he knows, his luck will run out. Maybe he will be the next picture in the news, shot for being somewhere he's not supposed to.

A shame, so young. That's what people will say.

There will be a week of mourning and then everyone moves on. One more face in a long row, another injustice, another name on a list. That's how it always is.

Shade is gone and doesn't answer his phone. Farley sends him home and said goodbye for good. Cameron hauled his ass out of the fire and he yelled at her. The boy he loves ignores him.

If even those people are done with him now, what's it matter?

His sister sits in the kitchen, staring at her phone when he staggers in.

 _"Despite the protests, the annual celebration WILL be held at Royal Corp-_ " a voice chirps out of her phone. " _We will not give in to terror, Elara Merandus says._ " The name reminds him of thinly veiled threats on a bench, and he snorts.

" _Press says It will be THE event of the year. According to several human rights groups, the protest COULD continue until an agreement for better life standards is conducted_ -"

"Tommy?" his sister asks when he staggers past. "Tommy your work called. They say you weren't there yesterday."

"Yeah, who cares." He mutters, balancing dangerously and kicking his dirty boots off.

 _"If anything,_ " a deep voice says through the speaker of his sister's phone" _The latest riots have proven one thing. There's no longer a ground to negotiate. Until the other side does not show leniency, willingness for peace-_ "

He wants to vomit. Instead, he smiles.

His sister glances at him and pauses whatever she just watches. Her eyes are as concerned as her voice.

"Tommy if you don't go there they'll fire you. Your boss likes you, and that's the only reason he hasn't already."

Thomas chuckles and slips out of the dirty shirt. There's sand or ash or whatever in his hair and it sticks.

"You look out of the window? City burns. Who freaking cares if I go to work."

"I know, it's bad." She turns her phone in her hands. "They camp in front of the skyscrapers and won't go. Police are going to remove them before that fancy party, but still. Please at least promise me not going out at night until this is over."

At least don't wander around town like you used to.

"Can't." He whispers, pushing his hair out of his face. He ignores the concerned voice following him.

The next night he gets into a fight again, and this time no one comes to save his hide. He does expect it. He just pokes the grizzly with a stick until it wakes up and rips him apart. People are vicious. He's used to it. He knows where to put his finger to make it hurt, to provoke them.

The first blow knocks him back, leaving a burning sensation on his cheek.

He doesn't even attempt to move away. It's the first time he actually ever fought back just to **FIGHT.** It would have been unfair if it was a one on one because he's not very strong. Now it's three on one and Thomas deals with as many blows as he can handle, kicking and throwing fists into the air until someone grips him and a fist crushes his nose.

It ends how it's probably always was going to end. He didn't fight to win, after all.

They knock him out. Doesn't take much. They leave a bloody nose and bruises, not half as bad as the night he lay in the snow, feet kicking him in the ribs, leaving him without air.

He's felt suffocating and helpless before. Nothing much changes. It didn't have the effect he hoped for.

He's blacking out, but not for very long.

And when he's back into the world he doesn't move, holding his face, blood soaking into his shirt.

The air is stale and hot. Thomas forces himself on his feet, barely at himself, half laughing, half crying, because he just can't stop himself. As if anything makes any sense. And as if anyone even cares.

He walks along, a road paved with dirty bricks and bad intentions.

And that's when he notices it. The quiet.

Sure, there's not always cacophony and chaos on the city streets. But there is always some noise, some silver lining for the lost to follow.

The city has a heart and this heart beats.

It's the noise of trains and cars, of people and humming electricity.

It's the rushing water of the river and the crying of seagulls.

Now there's nothing. Only the blood rushing through his head.

He stops, forcing himself to look around. He's the only person on the road. The people that mauled him are long gone. No one wanders under the luminescent lanterns. Only moths accompanying him under the light.

A traffic light blinks green. Not a single car is driving down the road.

It is as if the city is suddenly devoid of any life. As if everything has vanished.

Ghost town, Thomas thinks, and suddenly his head is crystal clear and there's fear running in alarming waves down his spine.

The next thing that pierces through his conscience is sound. It's loud and it's making him jump.

It rings through the air like a million gunshots, rippling through the intestines of the city, erupting like the force of a volcano. He can feel it through the asphalt.

He's not able to move, just helplessly looking around. Nothing in sight has moved. Nothing weird has happened. As if the sound was just in his head.

It's silent again. Deadly silence. Like a long held breath to brace oneself.

Despite the hot air, Thomas feels cold.

Then there's a siren.

Another joins in.

Until the air is filled with the sound of sirens howling like a pack of wolfs.

On his way home there's a weird smell in the air. Almost...burned. It smells of destruction, Thomas would say if asked.

He moves as fast as he can, wonky feet, staggering steps.

He attempts to stop and maybe get into the corner where he knows Cameron sleeps sometimes.

Police is blocking the way. No moving through.

The air is still filled with the sound of sirens and now it seems the ghost town has awakened from the slumber. There are red and blue lights everywhere. There are ambulances and police rushing through and even a helicopter in the air.

Nothing of that is good.

His sister doesn't pick up. Voicemail is the only thing he reaches.

"Call me." Is all he says. Sorry, I did not listen, he thinks, moving as fast as he can.

The next thing he knows he's pushed another button and the screen is lit with Maven's name. It rings excruciatingly long.

There's no answer either.

His heart is cramped together in the weirdest mixture of feelings.

His sister is nowhere to be found in their flat. There's fear shooting straight into his veins. He hopes she's not outside because of his idiotic selfish death wish.

There's no news yet, only confusion and fear.

Of course, people are speculating. Was it a bomb? A leak? Something about the protests?

There's tinfoil everywhere. Thomas sits at the kitchen table, holding a wet towel to his nose and waits.

Minutes creep by very slowly.

Thomas jumps at the sound of the doorbell. Without another thought he leaps over, ripping the door open.

It's not his sister.

Instead, he stares at a pair of blue eyes in a very pale face.

"Your face," is the first thing one of them says, and it's not Thomas. Because Thomas still stares silently. He forces himself to say something, anything really.

"You're not hurt, "Thomas whispers. "You ok?"

For the slightest of moments there is hesitation. Like last time, Thomas makes room, Maven steps in, Thomas closes the door. Smooth and mechanical.

"I think I made a mistake." Maven's voice whispers. "I did something very terrible."

"Oh," is all Thomas' mouth makes. "Can I do-"

Mavens hands are too hot, and his grip is so tight, it's going to leave a mark. They tear him down with the same force as the mouth crushing his. It's additional pain hurting through his defeated body.

Thomas just slings his arms around him and almost collapses against the wall.

This isn't what he hoped it would be. There's no understanding or even remotely care. It's raw force and it eats him. He surrenders willingly, hands sliding over Maven's spine, down his back. There's something super _wrong_ about all of this, but Thomas is too weak and pretty confused. He remembers the way they used to kiss, careful, waiting. This is the opposite. It's hungry and violent.

There's no air left in his lungs, and he breaks free, staring at the flushed face and the gripping arms.

"Not that I mind, but would you take it slow?"

"No.''Well, that's.. an answer.

"Look, "Thomas tries to say, resisting somehow to just go along. That's taking discipline with the way their bodies are pressed together and their breath mingling. "I'm gonna regret it, but just stop and tell me what's bothering you, ok? This isn't like you at all."

There is that feverish something again.

"No, it isn't. You're right."

Another kiss stops the words in his throat, and teeth drag over his lips. One more, Thomas is sure, and he doesn't care for whatever shit is going on. One more and he's in too deep.

"Dude, stop it and tell me what happened." Thomas tries a second time, and his hands wander along Maven's neck, gently, up to his face, cupping the cheeks and forcing eye contact. "Come on. Focus."

"I can't be alone." Maven whispers. "I need someone to stay."

 _Someone. Not Thomas. Just anyone really._

Thomas had his share of touches in the months he was alone because he couldn't stand to be alone. He never asked people to stay and never tried to know them. Because he was sure he'd walk out anyway. Or that they would see what kind of person he was behind the smiling. AA person that takes and takes and never has enough. A person that runs and walks out and destroys.

He never needed someone particular to touch him. It was the shortest kiss in a bathroom stall, or hands wandering down his back. A very few times it was more, a night, and that was always very clear from his side.

 _Only cause he was lonely. Anyone would have done, really._

His hands drop down and he pushes slowly until there is enough space to slip out of the cage that is Maven's arms.

"So kissing me was just about getting me to let you stay?"

There is no answer. Answer enough for Thomas.

"Alright." He says even though nothing is alright and he wants to curl together and die. " You can stay." The weird and calm outside Thomas says while every alarm is ringing on the inside. " But don't pull shit like this again if you don't mean it."

They sit on the kitchen chairs for a while. Eerily silent.

"I wanted to impress her." Is all Maven says.

Thomas' head snaps up. "Who? Barrow?" He asks. " Or your mother?"

There is no answer.

They lie in their usual stance, back to back, when it happens. A hand creeps under his shirt, resting too hot palm on his stomach.

" _What_ , "Thomas whispers and pushes the hand away. "What did I tell you about pulling shit you don't mean?"

There's the softest of answers. It's a single defeated word without any home, and it creeps under Thomas skin to infect his veins.

"Please."

The decision is made even before he turns around and seals his fate.

This is something else and he knows it too well.

He doesn't take anything. It only leaves him with pain. He still falls again and again. And some sick part of him enjoys it.

At first, it's just kisses, mouth yielding to the need to fill the emptiness.

It gets more every time they touch. It's building heat in their blood and shivers down their spines. They don't talk much. Once it starts it leaves little room for the usual lies.

It's silent and there's only breathing. There are teeth grazing skin, hands running along ink.

There's skin and warmth under covers until they fall asleep, feeling brimming and not alone, at least until they wake up again.

This isn't real, he knows it. This is like the night before he left, but worse. This time they both are draining each other. It's like an outlandish dream in this exploding night.

If he's honest he's just as selfish as Maven about it.

It's not like Thomas couldn't just say no and turn away. He's not forced to kiss that mouth. By nothing but his galloping heartbeat.

* * *

 _Lover come over_  
 _Look what I Done_  
 _I been alone so long_  
 _I feel like I'm on the run_

 _Lover Come over_  
 _kick up the dust_  
 _I got a secret_  
 _Starting to rust_

 _She said I'm looking like a bad man_  
 _Smooth criminal_  
 _She said my spirit doesn't move like it did before_  
 _She said that I don't look like me no more no more_  
 _I said I'm just tired_

 ** _Do I make you cringe?_**

 _[Matt Maeson-Cringe]_


	5. Enkindled

The morning after is... problematic, to put it mildly.

When he wakes up, he's alone. Thomas blinks through the dim light.

He's curled up in an empty spot. Space is cold, but he remembers something else entirely. Something warm, molten in his veins. The memory hunts through his body, leaving a warm feeling in his guts and an uncertain quickening of his pulse. It's like he's dreamed it all along, dreamed about hands searching in the darkness, desperately holding onto something, and a mouth hot and demanding.

He's not really sure what to make of it, now that it has happened. There's no way to undo it. No way to get rid of the fever flowing through him when he thinks about the way they touched.

It's like he decided to jump off the plane and is still falling, not sure how to open the parachute.

Unwillingly he gets up, finding a tangled pile of clothes and just dresses lazy. His body hurts but there's also some weird satisfaction, something smooth and easy in the way his body moves.

He's almost shocked to find Maven in the kitchen.

He still looks deranged in the small space, just sitting on one of the chairs. Thomas takes a moment to study his frame, the hair curling around his neck, the sharp line of his cheek. He sits hunched over his phone and it reminds him of all the times he watched him study or read. But he also remembers the way his teeth dragged along that neck and his hands slipped over the smooth skin, feeling muscles tense.

There are pain and something guilty shooting through Thomas, and he's not sure how or what to say, and how to act.

He doesn't seem to be the only one, by the looks of it. Their eyes brush along each other before they look away.

The night has broken whatever they couldn't rebuild and pierced it together to something else.

It's not like he hadn't hoped there could be a time when they'd come around to nights like this. He hadn't anticipated it to happen now, and sure as hell not with all that damage and weight slumped over their shoulders.

He isn't even sure it has the same meaning for them.

"Morning, stranger," he jokes, half-hearted. It sounds weird and too loud.

Mavens lips are a thin line. "Good morning."

Is it really good, though? He can't say for sure.

Not yet.

He turns his back, avoiding any more words for now. His sister left a text, at least, so there's that reason to worry off the list. He's glad she's at home and his family isn't hurt. His hands slide over the screen to write back but he's not getting much out of his head.

He doesn't check the news or the feed of images. He doesn't care right now. It's selfish and stupid but he can't deal with a burning world when there's a boy kindling unkind flames in his soul.

For a while, Thomas rummages through the shelves, and that's the only sound filling the hollow emptiness. He isn't even that hungry. He still tries to function like a normal person, grabbing a bowl out of the mismatched mess of the dishes.

The silence is electric, rippling static and uncomfortable.

The poor box of cereal is not deserving to be slumped down and throwing on the sink like that.

"Is this what's it going to be?" He holds his spoon like a lance, ready to joust with the invisible contesters of his fears. "Like, we hooked up in regret and now we just wait for the other to leave?"

"Do you?" Maven asks, and to Thomas distaste, he's putting on his blank face. He thought they'd gotten over that. It pisses him off to no extent. But that's just how it is. "Regret?"

Thomas braces himself. "I regret a bunch of things, pretty boy, but it's done now. So we either forget this ever happened or get around."

"I am not sure what this means. But forgetting isn't a possibility."

When Thomas glances over he sees a pale finger tracing over a bruised spot, just above the rim of a shirt, as if the touch could erase the mark. Milk spills over the sink, but Thomas doesn't really care. There's something hoping in him. Because if forgetting isn't an option what is?

There's still a lot of hurt and unspoken things hanging in the air.

There's a very elaborate silence vibrating from the table. Thomas saw it coming. They were always bad to communicate their feelings properly. Nothing much has changed. It's just gotten more complicated.

The hand is still covering the mark Thomas' mouth left. There are cracks in the blank face. For only a second he's the anxious boy Thomas remembers. Before everything fell apart and he fucked it up.

The spoon clunks against the bowl, and the contents shake dangerously when he makes his way to the empty chair and sits down.

"I am not the big price," Thomas says, looking at his hands. "And. I know you're into Barrow. I was an asshole. I kinda brought that on when I ditched you." That's the wrong words. They taste wrong. They sound like some foreign language. "But tell you what. It's ok. Can't change it. If you need someone to stay, you call me."

Maven looks at Thomas as if he's a rare obscure anomaly. Like a flying pig. "You mean it."

"Course I do. You let me stay when I had nowhere to go. Time to return the favor." The cereal slings down his throat like spiky pebbles. Swallowing hurts.

"You'll not tell me why you were freaked out yesterday, right?" Thomas smiles. _Master of rhetoric questions._

"I'd rather not." The eyes evade him again.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"It wouldn't change a thing. And it's not like I can stop it anymore."

Who are you lying to, pretty boy? Thomas thinks. Me or you?

"Sometimes we can at least keep the damage small," Thomas says. Like he knows anything about it.

Maven frowns. "Maybe."

Somewhere along the morning, though some strained talk and silence, it's time to part ways for now.

"See you later?" Thomas asks. Is he hoping for too much?

"I'd like to," Glued hands in pockets, the smallest of breaths. "But I can't."

"Forgot about the fancy party. Stay safe." The plan is a very little kiss, not even necessary to that mouth. Some farewell, a lucky charm like the strips of paper street rat Thomas used to keep in his pocket because a very elegant hand had written his name on it. It turns into something else again, like their bodies are separated beings, striving forward and to each other.

 _Intentions, it seems, are worthless when actions prove them wrong._

It tastes bitter, but that's only because Thomas knows this isn't real and will probably never be.

Two hours later Thomas is alone and forces himself to move up and around like a human being. That's when his phone rings. No number he knows.

An unknown voice says his last name and him wonders. No one ever uses that. It's ordinary and a million people share it. But oh well, his parents had an ordinary day when they chose to name him Thomas too. As a child, he'd wanted a cool name, something obscure like one of the characters in the cartoons. In the end, Thomas does sound slightly better than a mix of sentient car robots and aliens.

"Yes?" he answers.

" I am calling on behalf of Miss Cole and her brother."

His heart stops in his chest. Like a dead battery.

"Are they alright?" he forces himself to ask.

The voice on the other side of the call does things like this as their job and so there's not the slightest pause before it says words that are probably imprinted in their brain.

"Miss Cole has stated she had no close kin next to her brother but named you her emergency contact."

He just listens, unable to move. He remembers the way he yelled at her and how tired she was.

"Are they alright? " he repeats like a scratched record. "I mean, is it bad?"

She sits on a chair in the white corridor.

When she turns her head there's a row of stitches running along her brow and barely missing her eye. A little to the left and whatever hit her could have made her blind.

He sees the bruises and bandages and thinks of his fight last night. How stupid and lucky he was.

"Hey, asshat." She says as if he had just caught her lounging and loitering in her usual corner.

Thomas snorts. "Hey, muffin."

"Got glassed." She says, and Thomas stares at the stitches on her face in anger and shock.

The next he knows he's hugging her as tight as he can. She doesn't hug him back but she's not hitting him either.

"You freaking mule." He whispers in her hair. There's a very distinct and sharp smell from disinfection and hospital clinging to her, cloaking sweat and smoke. "Shoulda moved in with me."

"And hear you ugly cry yourself to sleep over a guy?"

"You missed A LOT, " he sighs but can't let go of her yet. "And you'll call me names when I tell you."

She doesn't answer.

"How's your brother?" Thomas whispers.

Suddenly one of her arms gives his side a squeeze before she pushes him off, and he knows it's not just stitches.

"What happened?"

"Got in a fight with some asshole and his friends," she answers shrugging, barely scowling. He's very worried. "Glassed me and got him too. Stabbed him with the fucking thing after it splattered over my face."

Thomas stares at her in horror. "He'll be ok tho, won't he?"

"Yeah, but it'll take some time. He's high as a kite and asleep."

"Need me to do something? Talk to someone?"

"Can talk to the doctor if you wanna." She looks like she bit a lemon.

"Okay. Gonna find him, what's the name?"

The doctor is a woman. She's the same age as Thomas' mother, with blond hair pulled into a knot, and when he approaches her , her eyes take in his worry and nervous twitching with patience.

 _Skonos_

Her tag reads.

Her voice is low and friendly. She doesn't say much, mostly listening to his rambling questions and filling the gaps.

" Do we need to do paperwork?" he asks. He fucking hates paperwork. His writing only shows he missed out on education.

She shakes her head. He's a little relieved.

"Make sure Miss Cole has a place to stay. " She says when they part ways, and it's nothing judging in her words. Only some concern. "The street is not safe."

"Yeah, you tell me, Doc," he answers, shivering.

They stay in the hospital because Cameron is not willing to leave. Thomas hates hospitals with all his might but he isn't going to abandon her.

For once he's the shield and spear and if there are twenty hospitals with their stench and the white walls he'll endure.

With enough nagging and shoving he gets her to eat something.

" Wait a second, asshat, " Cameron says and pulls down his jacket in her usual invading space. " That's no battle scar. Why you got so much fucking hickeys? " When he leans away she just pulls more and huffs at thin red lines crawling over his shoulder.

He sighs, prying her fingers away ."I told you, missed a lot. I kinda had my ex-boyfriend over last night."

"You still look mushy."

"We didn't exchange wedding vows," he mocks with only a little pain hiding behind it. " It's complicated, cookie dough."

She looks at his nose. "I'd punch you, but someone has done the job. Or are you into weird stuff? Cause I don't wanna know. "

They don't immediately go home. Instead, they sit down and talk. Well, he talks. Cameron offers her usual snarling and snapping, mixed with some creative insults and some punches. The sun's down and it's getting dangerously close to night when they decide to finally go home. Thomas stares at his phone for the first time in hours. No missed calls, no texts from Maven.

 _What did you expect? He said he's busy. His mother probably has put him in a fancy suit. Not like he could just say Sorry, need to call that red dude I hook up with._

But there's another long list of calls he missed.

Seems his whole family has flipped their shit. Even his father left a voicemail.

" _Tommy_ ," the voice says, not angry at all but almost suffocating. His father hasn't called him Tommy since he got into his first fight. " _Wherever you are. Stay inside. Hear me?_ "

"The fuck?" he hears Cameron whisper.

When he turns around to see what makes her of all people speechless, he looks up and can't breath.

The sky is bathed in flickering lights.

 **It's on fire.**

The next minutes are filled with howling sirens and they stand in the parking lot like frozen.

Phone service has died. No coming through.

That's when the first ambulance pulls in and more cars follow until everything is clogged.

Everything is panic and hasty moves and it feels wrong.

There's A LOT of injured people. There's a lot of blood. Some of it is red. Some is silver.

Some are just slightly shaking, a mess like Thomas was last winter. The hardest is the smell and the sounds the other make when they get rushed in. It smells scorched again. Suffocating. He breathes through his mouth.

Seems this whole thing has reached the peak and everything is turning into ruins.

"It's coming from the towers," Cameron says.  
 _Press says It will be THE event of the year._  
 _They camp in front of the skyscrapers and won't go. Police are going to remove them before that fancy party, but still._  
 _Forgot about the fancy party. Stay safe._

He can't think straight anymore.

"Thomas?" Cameron nudges his arm.

Thomas stares at the smoke in the sky and can't move.

"Cookie. Go inside. Go to your brother," he whispers. "Stay there. If they bother you, just let Skonos tell them to fuck off. She's a good one, she'll let you stay."

"What are you...?!"  
He turns around and moves away from her.  
The fucking phone is useless. Nothing works.  
The network keeps malfunctioning, the same as his heart.

Every siren and alarm all over the city must be blaring. It is a cacophony of screams, mismatched and strident.  
It is only united by the feeling it leaves on his cold skin.

Despite the alarms, he doesn't encounter another person walking on the road.

Thomas body is unwilling to move any further. As the alarms outside are ringing and warning, it's just the same in his muslces, tense, and nerves tingling. There's cold sweat on his hands and goosebumps on his spine.  
There's some sort of bubble. As soon as he gets inside , things change rapidly. A burning car blocks the way, smothering the night sky with mocking strikes.

The air is even hotter, even harder to breath and it speaks for itself it flares and tingles in his nostrils as he takes a needed deep breath.

If ever a smell told more about the state of the world it's the smell of flames, thick smoke mixed with the desperation.

There's shattered glass and loose stones.

A single dark shoe lies abandoned on the pavement.

And then there's the crowd. The thick stream of bodies is like the river itself. Waving forth and back in the breeze of anger and panic.

The smoke is so thick he can barely make out any face.

There's people with hoods and some have slung scars around their faces.

A bottle is send flying next to Thomas, crushing and shattering.

Red light shines through the fog of war.

Red.

Like blood.

Like the color of the banner someone is swinging around like the freedom flag.

A red sun.

Thomas remembers the symbol.

He wonder if there's anyone he knows hidden in those scarfs and hoods.

His eyes try to scan the crowd, but it is pushing and pulling and unforgiving. His lungs are a burning sensation.

The fighting is just an alley away. There a gun shots ringing through the screaming, the chanting , the shattering and exploding.

There's no getting through.

Someone is shoving him.

In the distance, blue and red lights blink. Another voice yelling through a megaphone.

The next thing he knows he's pressed between bodies , and an elbow hits him hard into the stomach.

There's no getting through.

No running and returning.

Farley warned him. Shade said he should stay home. His sister asked him not to go.

He didn't listen.


	6. Cracks

Thomas is trapped. He can't move on his own. There's bodies swaying him back and forth. If he stops they will just trample him into a bloody pulp.

If he could just roll into the smallest ball and wait for it to be over, he would. But this isn't like a bad dream. This isn't like a child that fears the monster in the closet. Because even if he closes his eyes, he can smell the flames and the smoke and he hears the shots and the yelling.

This is everything he was ever afraid of. This is everything his cowardly rabbit heart always tried to avoid.

There's some sort of firework send flying above his head and it hits a car.

Another shattering sound when a brick accompanies it.

He works his way to the side, stepping left whenever the smallest gap between hooded heads and elbows pops up.

What exactly has he hoped? He'd walk up to the scorching mess and find..? What? This is not some drama. He's not going to slow motion through this mess.

He finds it hard not to panic. The people are one being. An angry, snapping being. Claws extended, teeth pointy and ready to rip things apart.

He doesn't see any face he knows. But how would he with the chaos and the fog? Farley could be standing next to him and he wouldn't recognize her. He doesn't even recognize himself in the mayhem.

And then there's the howling of a siren again, closer this time. He can see something is going on on the other side.

He's not sure he wants to find out. He thinks of the video the day after they stormed that gathering in the dirty warehouse.

The blood and the screams. He knows this will be worse. Because people are fighting back. And they are much more than in that little room. It's not herding sheep anymore. This people reek of aggression. Even if they panic they will not just run.

Another firework send flying, red flaring, and it burns in his eyes because the sparks are too close.

When he finally has reached the end of the crowd, he sees he chose the wrong side. Towers are to the right, separated through the bodies and the fights.

Next he knows someone has pushed him. When he looks in the direction of the attack he sees people stumble.

It's a flurry. The crowd gets chopped in tiny pieces to weaken them.

It's the old tactic, overthrowing them, wearing them out. And people can only loose.

Someone hits his head and he goes down. Then he stays down while some uniforms and boots appear in his field. Next to him someone struggles and his hooded head hits the asphalt so hard there's blood.

Thomas lies down and tries to keep it together until he's cuffed and pulled up.

The cell is supposed to hold less people. It's clear by the way they are stuffed in, like they are still in the crowd. Worse. Because people here are bruised and battered and they are looking like chicken behind this bars.

Police is less than gentle. After he's stripped off any possession and they made sure to have his name, Thomas is lined up to be a fellow chicken. They just shove them in one after another.

It's a long night.

He sits on the ground.

This place smells of everything foul human bodies contain. Piss and blood and vomit and sweat. Stinging in his nose.

It reminds him of the night when his parents had to pick him up after he smashed the window. There was uncertainty. Asking himself if that was the right choice. But he was also angry and pretended not to give a fuck. This is indefinitely worse.

He's less shameful and more tired now. And he's sure he'll rot in here with all the others. At least no one he knows is rotting in the hellhole.

Which means one of three things.

They are in another cell.

They are fine and hiding somewhere.

They are dead.

He doesn't sleep. Even if he wants to, he can't. Too many shuffling, hissing and shoving and in the end , simply too much disgust. Once or twice he can't keep his eyes open and dozes off.

He doesn't expect someone to get him out. He doesn't know who would or could. It's early morning and the fireworks are haunting him. He is curled together tightly . Oh , this time no one will take it lightly. It doesn't matter he didn't throw a stone. He was there. He's got the right colour of blood to fit in the mix. Which makes it all the more stranger when someone calls his name and he gets out of the shithole.

"Got friends," the cop only huffs, not even looking at his face.

"Thanks, I guess?" Thomas snorts but doesn't dare to tempt fate any further.

When he looks at his phone, with a new scratch and a network of cracks running along the screen he is surprised to find it working. Although the battery is almost dead there is a bunch of messages and a few missed calls. Most of them are from his family. One though...

"I don't know where you are." There's a cracking sound and steps as Maven talks." I am sorry I wasn't honest. You were good to me, and you don't deserve to be treated like this." There's something so desperate and quiet in the way the words flow through the speaker Thomas stops dead in his tracks. "I was angry when you left me. I was never good at coping with things. And then things started to change and I met Mare. And..I really couldn't understand why I was even remotely interested in her. Maybe it was because my brother- he always got everything- And I was still not over-" A controlled breath and Thomas can exactly imagine the evading eyes and the frown. " I told my mother things I shouldn't have. And it lead to... What am I doing?" Thomas swallows hard. "I need you. I need your help."

There's no response when Thomas tries to call.

Then his battery dies and he stares at the black screen, seeing his hurt face and the dark circles under his eyes. The city is not calm, not more than Thomas is. There's nervous twitching and tired sighing under the skin, an uneasy feeling left in the streets.

When he comes home, he finds an empty void. The flat is abandoned. Everything looks the same as the moment before he left. There's the bowl abandoned on the sink, dried up and dirty. The space all for himself, without other bodies piling up, and all the silence is weird.

He goes into his sisters room. It smells like her. He misses a friendly face. He needs to apologize. For now he just lies down on her bed . Turns the TV on. There's only images of destruction, similar to what Thomas has seen himself all along. Burning cars and fires, and then there's images of the destroyed towers. Black glass and chrome shattered, burned down and scorching.

" _According to anonymous sources the riot apparently started inside the building_ ," a voice says over the images of the mayhem. " _quickly spreading outside and leading to large fights , several burning buildings and cars, escalating until police and special forces removed the protestors_."

Yeah, removed, that's what that was. Thomas sees people beaten, on the ground, a stick hitting a head. He remembers struggling feet, mouths open in screams. Stones and smoke.

" _The tower was badly damaged . Rebuilding and damage control will cost-_ "

Because fuck people, Thomas thinks irritated and shocked. Spend a lot of money on rebuilding glass and steel and ignore the destruction of human life. He switches through the channels.

" _We have a confirmation now,_ " a man in a suit says, holding his ear, in the back an image flickers by and Thomas recognizes the streets he was stuck in yesterday before they show the scorching symbol of wealth again, proving that the system is falling apart. " _There were shots inside the building before the explosions. Ambulance was called but could only determine immediate death-_ "

Thomas presses the button again and sees a red flag with a sun. " _Calling themselves the Scarlet Guard-_ "

His hand pushes the button so hard it presses it deep into the remote.

" _Heinous crimes and acts of terrorism we cannot tolerate by forming any agreement!_ "

He turns of the TV and listens to the voicemail again and again, until he falls into a very uneasy sleep.

He's slept for less than five hours when someone knocks on his door.

For a slight second hopes blossoms in his chest.

He feels guilty when he looks at a patched up Cameron instead and is slightly disappointed. The feeling fades quickly.

"You ok?" he asks, letting her in. "How's your brother?"

"Hospital was packed but I crashed with him." She throws her bag aiming at the kitchen table. With a shattering noise it almost rolls over. He flinches at the noise.

"I'm glad you got to stay. Street was a mess." Thomas shivers through the sticky air in the apartment and hugs himself.

There's gruff sympathy in her eyes.

"You look fucked up."

He doesn't want to talk about it.

"You can sleep in my bed." He offers instead. "Eat, or chill, whatever. Need some rest."

He hides in his sisters room again, curling under the covers and blocking the world out. Not for long though until his guest decides to come after him.

"Move your skinny ass." She says, poking a crooked finger in his side.

She's staying silent. Even when he starts to cry.

She doesn't wander to his bed but sprawls her long limbs over the cover.

They fall asleep somehow. At least Thomas does. When he wakes up Cameron is still there safe and sound.

Her elbow pierces right into his chest, aiming at the soft spots with deadly precision.

Her legs are kicking him whenever she turns. He lies awake , listening to her heavy breath and wishes he could find the comfort he needs. It's not her fault. She's giving her best to be nice.

He gets up slowly, grabbing his phone and tiptoeing into the kitchen. Not that he'd need to be stealthy. Cameron would probably sleep through anything. She probably wasn't safe for a while. He remembers street days good enough to know how much a roof is valued.

The humming of the fridge is the only sound in the silence.

No one picks up.

"Hey, me again." He whispers. "Hope out are okay. I just...I miss you. And I worry. I'm fucking scared. Please call me back."

Cameron does her best, but every hour is creeping by and it's hard not to worry. Not to care too much. The last time he was so fixed on Maven he decided to leave. This isn't going well. But it's not like he would call. Once there's a picture with his father, and Cal and Maven are lurking in the background. Thomas stares at the article, at the words, but he can't read it. He just stares at the image. The cracks in the screen feel like a part of his soul.

Two days later, in the dead of night, through loud breathing and piercing elbows, his phone rings.

"Yeah?" Thomas voice mumbles. For a second he thinks it is Maven. He still hasn't called back. Every word of the voicemail is embedded in his soul by now. "I was pretty worried, y'know."

"You need to get the car for me."

It's Farley. She sounds like shit.

"What?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.

"Listen, Thomas, I don't have time to explain. My car is at a parking lot uptown. Keys are in. Get the car and come pick us up. We are in Summerton."

Farley, he thinks. The fuck?

"What are you doing in Summerton?" He asks, putting his shoes on without socks . That's how sleepy he is.

"Jail." She sounds begrudging.

Thomas groans, low.

"Look, we got bailed out for now. But we need a lift. Can I count on you?"

That's cheap. As if he can say no. Especially now.

"Yeah, yeah." He just whispers.

He still agrees and lets her give him a proper description .

Farley stands in a cone of light, battered and bruised. She looks as shit as she sounded, but she's not broken. Even now she has more strength and spine than Thomas ever will. He looks at the small group of people huddled together behind her like she's a guardian. Kilorn Warren stares into nothingness, arms crossed. There's something smeared on his jacket. When Thomas looks closer, he sees it's blood.

"Where's Shade?" Thomas asks, looking around. He was sure he'd see him with the others. Tristan and Anne are missing too. Farley doesn't say a word.

They get in the car.

It's deadly quiet. Thomas drives. He's the only car in the normally busy street. It's like the city has fallen into deep sleep.

"Diana," he says over the brimming engine of the van.

She sits next to him but doesn't answer.

He looks in the mirror and sees the beaten faces. All are so silent it's like they cut their tongues out.

When they stop at a traffic light, her voice is a breath on his skin. "Tristan is dead."

Thomas grips the wheel hard. "Shit." He mutters.

"They still got Walsh."

"You didn't get her out?"

"You don't think I tried?" she sneers. Her body is shaking, if it's anger or sorrow, he doesn't know. Maybe both. She looks so tired.

"Sorry, Farley. Just..I didn't expect this."

"It wasn't meant to be like this. It went all according to plan. He let us in and-"

 _I made a mistake._

 _I need your help._

" Please tell me you don't mean who I think you mean." The words leave a very sour taste in his throat.

"I do mean your precious prince." She clenches her teeth.

"Yeah well I warned you," he whispers and his heart cramps in his chest." I always warned you , don't say I didn't. About it all."

"Does that change a thing?" she asks matter of fact. And she's right. There'd still be death and blood and a shit unfair world if he didn't.

He concentrates on the streets. She can be glad he came. She should be thankful she's alive.

He can't talk and won't listen anyway. It's like someone has run him over with a bulldozer.

"Just so you know, I can't, " Thomas tries to sound not as off from reality as he feels. "I can't take care of any of this. I was never a part of your merry men, Diana Farley."

" No, you weren't." She says. "I warned you to step down."

He thinks of all the times she patched him up, gave him shelter or just listened. "Well, glad we can agree on that."

Shade loiters in front of the building, he just waits and watches them get out of the van.

Thomas remains for a second, leaning his head on the wheel and breathing.

When he finally gets up, he's shaking . He feels less alive and more tired than he ever did these past months.

"Take care." He says to Shade, who's watching Farley closely. He's got a million more things to say but doesn't. "I've got somewhere to go."

The hills haven't changed much. They are still the clean and rich neighbourhood he remembers.

Now there's cops and security , but Thomas remembers all the little alleys and though there's a memory behind every bush, at every corner and lurking in the shadows with claws slashing through his skin, he presses on.

He flinched before the cameras. Now he doesn't even look as he climbs the gate and walks up the long driveway.

No one is stopping him.

There is no car and no light. The house is dead.

It's abandoned and empty, like everything in his life.


	7. Stencil

If the person you love is responsible for your weird resistance fighting friends to get imprisoned, killed, for streets to burn. And if he's clearly in a shitty situation making all your lives practically worse than ever, there are some options, ranking from ridiculous over stupid down to self-destructive. Some are obvious but maybe helpless.  
Thomas counts them down when he lies awake.

 _You walk away. You run and live in the woods with a goat. You become a grizzled lumberjack and chop your phone in half._

How tempting. Thomas is sure he'd look terrific with a man bun and in flannel. He doesn't know shit about goats and is easy to chop like a twig himself.

 _You stay and hope he reaches out when he sees he's not ok._ The beginning is made, right? He called and admitted a mistake. But then again, he tends to backpedal. He's the master of turning words. If Maven was manoeuvring a ship he'd never sink. He'd just sail all the cliffs and the land until people around him were starving. Because friends and enemies all look the same to him most times. Thomas took months the first time and now he took weeks again, slowly worming his way into his life. And he never got too close to the truth. Despite the late nights, the tired eyes and the talks, despite the urging for sleep and help.

Oh, and yes, the last time he stood on his doorstep because he couldn't take care of himself anymore, they didn't talk much. Not that it didn't have its perks, but it did NOT help. Any of them. There's still that warm feeling in his belly when he thinks about it, but he will be damned if he just continues. Not after what has just happened. After everything.

Something in him gets frustrated and violent angry when he thinks of the lies, and he can't stop the sour taste in his mouth.

And then he thinks of the hunched back. And he sees there's always something in the back of maven's head that makes him lie because he thinks he will regret it if he doesn't.

Because people make each other weak, right? Can't you rely on anyone?

Thanks, Mother of the Year. Great job.

He remembers how easy she frightened him when she was waiting for him on the bench. He thinks of his own mother, and he should get her the biggest box of chocolate ever.

There is another alternative.

 _You get involved so much you are bound to get in trouble. And you do it willingly._

That's the Thomas way. He's done it his whole life. He will probably do it again and again until it kills him. Maybe he should learn this time.

He could finally go and see Farley. Talk to her about it all. Tell her he kind of understands now. Maybe even tag along.

But there are his father's words about a wasted life and his rabbit heart reminds him of the cuffs, of boots pressing onto him and arms pulling him up.

He's terrible afraid to face her again. He can't bring himself to look at her face after the incident. It changes everything. It's not even her fault. He always knew what she was and what she would do one day.

He knew the moment she patched him up he was admiring her, because she didn't wander around. She had her goals and ambition sorted out. He made fun of it. In truth he just couldn't hold still and make decisions.

He's stuck. He can't figure it out alone.

But he doesn't want to involve anyone.

He knows what Cameron would say. But the girl is fifteen and angry. Despite her good qualities, he should not make her his moral compass. She has to figure out her own shit. He should be the one helping her, not leaning on her back.

In the end, there is only one person to figure at least part of this out.

Thomas calls again and again. Until he's sure it looks unhealthy.

"By now," he says more to the phone than on it."You could really just drop by. Because you were the one calling me. And I really need to see you. Not just to yell at you or call you names, promise. That was just angry me. Not that you don't deserve a kick in the ass. But it's not that. Like...y'know, you said you needed me."

Then he remembers what Cameron said when she took the picture and feels stupid for not trying that again.

Social media is in a flurry since the burning streets and he sees so many banners, images and wallpapers, he can't count.  
 _Your graphics,_ he thinks, _are shit. Get someone who knows what a pencil looks like. Is that an egg or a sun?_  
Some absurd sense of humour has settled in him.

If she thought he was like a fifty year old man because there was no profile picture she'd scowl gleefully at the most harmless and inconspicuous thing ever. With parents like that it probably makes sense there's nothing really on there. Also it's perfectly fitting the social activity Thomas would expect from an enormous dork like that.

 **Maybe you lost your phone.** He writes. All his friends would hit him in the head. Sweet Thomas, he didn't loose his phone and you know it. **Dude. Just say anything. You moved. Are you ignoring me or what?**

The house was abandoned the day he ran up the hills. Security measures, he's sure, after what happened at the party.

He remembers the anger fueling his body, and the way his face pressed against the glass. Empty hallways. Freshly abandoned, but clearly, because the garden is a little unkempt and there is dust on the windows.

That blighted party.

There's flames and faces in Thomas dreams and they won't ever leave.

 **Ok**. He writes. Last chance. **Meet me at that bench. Tomorrow.**

Not at home. Not where this escalated the last time.

 _Because if Cameron sees you, she'll tear you to shreds, and I am not sure I will stop her, depending on the way this ends._

He sits down and stares, not really thinking anything. He's almost too calm for all that has happened.

Thomas waits for three hours. There's a curfew now. He doesn't want to cross it if not necessary. No one is going to pull his sorry ass out of a cell this time.

He thought the bench would remind him of Elara and the way she threatened him. It's a pleasant surprise there's another memory of a kiss instead, soft like a butterfly.

You're cute, he said that day. Because he couldn't believe anyone would care for his filthy little heart. He sincerely hopes at least part of Maven cares enough to take the offer now. I need you. He thinks of the flaring in his body when they kissed and he realizes the marks have faded already. That's how long he hasn't seen him. That's how long the night in jail and the fire and the explosions are back. That's the last reminder gone.

It seems even farther away than street days and he feels terrible old and wounded. Like he came to this place to die. A cat curling up under a porch.

Nothing much has changed about the place. Why would it? It's just a simple wooden bench. There's some bird shit and more scratches on it but that's it.

He waits until he's sure no one will ever show up. Somewhere along the waiting he gets bored and starts going through the contents of his pockets and the bag. He finds a sharpie.

Well that's irony. He feels the need to top it.

And so he draws a chicken dragon on the wood. OUCH! It exclaims with bright innocence.

Just to make sure the intention is clear he pierces an arrow through its head.

At least it makes some decisions easier. One is finally knocking on that door being let in. Both figuratively and literally.

Farley's door opens after the pounding of his fists, hitting the wood with force. Course she's not alone. He doesn't really care.

He hasn't been here since he was sent away. There's faces he doesn't recognize and some he does. No prominent one like Barrow though. Boy is he glad. He'd make it awkward and say shit he would regret he's sure.

"I want in." Thomas says.

Her eyes wander down his thin frame and his hands, nails digging deep in his palms. "You were never convinced by anything you heard."

He snorts . "Well I am convinced now. Fuck it, we are friends, and I hate loosing you, I want in. You just tell me what to do."

For a moment she seems to consider it, weighing it on her tongue. "I know you, Thomas. There's no more running if you want in." It leaves no room for discussing. It's an order and a last warning.

"Sure thing, Captain." He answer, relaxing his hands and taking a breath he wasn't aware he's holding. "Just don't make me punch people... I'm a wimp."

Seems they agree on that. "You can start helping Hannah."

"Hanni Hannah?" he can't believe the words. " Like my freaking sister? The woman that tugs me in and makes me late night snacks? The bread girl?"

"Not your younger one, that's for sure."

At the thought of that Thomas laughs in absurdity. "Imagine Ida knocking cops with her freaking fairy stick."

For a moment there is something between them, like ash on the tip of their tongues and unbreakable silence. Nothing, Thomas knows, will ever be as it was. Not after that night. Not after the flames.

He extends his hand. Farley grabs it.

It's a firm handshake. "Welcome to the Scarlet Guard, Thomas. Don't make me regret it."

"I know where I stand." He promises and thinks of blue eyes staring right through him.

Later that evening he watches his sister as if he has never met her before. She just sits on her bed and does nothing but look at her phone. But there are suddenly questions popping in. Is she texting someone from the Guard? How long is she in? What exactly was she thinking?

"You could have... you should have said you were into this." He finally decides to break the silence. His sister stares at him with dark eyes that remind him so much of his mother it's uncanny.

"No, Tommy, you were in trouble. I couldn't bring myself to get you involved. Not when you were in love with-"

"Wait," he draws his brows together. "I never told you that."

"He talked to me when you were homeless, remember?" There's something stirring at him with memories at that mentioning. " And that late night visit?" She asks undisturbed. Which makes him even more nervous. " I saw you two sleeping when I left and checked on you. People need to be blind to see there isn't something going on. You were up all night talking on the phone."

 _I have a ninja sister. Freaky._

At least she wasn't there the other time, he thinks.

He knew she was better than him all of this secret stuff makes her almost other wordly. Not the girl he did burn some hair and eyebrows off when he accidentally kind of stupid had his fire phase.

Instead of other questions he sits on her bed.

"Show me your secret lab," he nudges her shoulder gently. " come on."

His sister lets out a good natured sigh. Then she grabs her bag und pulls out a laptop. He's never seen it before. It looks expensive. She even has a freaking pad for drawing. The screen lits up bright red and she types something.

He stares at her stuff, all the posts and banners.

"No wonder the sun looks like an egg," he teases her. "You never were an artist. I have a spider to prove it."

"You do it now." She just says. " I'm still your superior. Ah, doesn't it feel good. Telling my brother what to do."

"Bossy." He snorts but doesn't mind. Not really. It's just show.

In truth, maybe this is just as good coping with it than anything else.

He draws what he remembers. A hooded face lit red by fireworks. Smoke. Blood on stones.

He doesn't really has experience with the digital side, but his sister is just the same as she was with the tattoo machine. She explains and is patient.

He learns fast, and maybe it's just because he really doesn't do anything else. He got no job, because the bistro got smashed, and he would have been fired soon anyway.

Cameron sits on the carpet when he works sometimes, watching TV or just peeking up from time to time. She still crashes from time to time, with her freshly stitched up brother in tow, and he leaves them his room gladly.

"Dude," she says and stares at the face on the screen, black and white , behind red bars. "Not bad."

When his sister sees it she has some kind of his amusement most people have adapted on calling his sister simply 'the bread girl'. She even has that name on social media. "That would be a great stencil."

He just shrugs.

"I'm not into spraying or shit."

"I know someone who is." She says, gnawing her lip. "That and some of your monsters. Like the phoenix or that dragon. Way better than just the sun. I mean, the sun is iconic. It will always stay in in top. But we need some diversity."

"No." Thomas says helpless. "No monsters. Not the phoenix. Anything but that."

"Are you sure-"

"NO." He repeats and curls up in his seat. "Please, just stop."

She doesn't ask anymore. When he dares to leave the house the next time someone left him a present. Opposite his block someone has put the face behind the bars on the whole wall, plus some red suns sprinkled along. There's yellow tape fluttering and he just stares silently at something he made out of nightmares.

It's the strangest feeling ever. He feels like puking. It's not so different from people proudly wearing ink but it's so much bigger and much less personal. Everyone watches. This has some meaning for a lot more people. This is part of the city's heartbeat now.

He's not so sure for a moment if joining was the right choice.

Sure, he has his friends back. But it's not like they chatter friendly like they used to. All he gets are updates. Sometimes one of them asks how he is doing. They mean it. Thomas answer is always a lie.

He's not a very important part of any operation, and he knows it's a benefit from his friendship. And his uselessness too. He's rarely invited to bigger meetings or anything resembling that warehouse . It's all pretty secretive and undercover.

And sometimes there is a message telling him where not to go.

Instead of trying to reach out anymore he leaves it at glances. At some pictures, observing news , or just listening or reading what the Guard drags in on information. Not too much and nothing personal enough.

His rebel parents notice the interest but they don't ask, to his surprise. They just watch in the distance. He lets them.

The next time he stares at an image of Maven and thinks about a street on fire and warmth spreading through his bones the night before he just surrenders to another form of coping. It's the middle of the night when his sister stands in the doorway to the kitchen and watches the buzzing needle work along his hand, filling dark flames along the back of his hand. It's almost elegant, like a certain handwriting he kept looking at wondering what words meant he could read but not comprehend. Fits hauntingly well. He's satisfied with a physical reminder to stop burning his hands. And maybe still, it's as much promise and even some weird form to acknowledge who his heart still belongs to, even through the sadness and the anger.

He's not having his life in control. That time has passed. But maybe if he can put this restless energy into the cause to make life better for anyone, really anyone who deserves it, that can mean something one day. Any day, really. Because this city does deserve some peace. People are still on edge. There's curfew and police raids, shakedowns and little fights .

 **I found the Cockatrice.**

An unknown number says. There's probably a lot of people knowing a chicken dragon. Only one held Thomas a lecture on how it's bred and has his phone number.

Look what the fuck you fairy left me as a gift this night, Thomas thinks. Cameron is rubbing off bad in her habits of cursing and scowling.

He takes his time to answer. Makes himself breakfast. Oh, look, his sister left a note on the fridge. Maybe he should shower.

 _You could have found me if you had showed up in time._

He's not willing to say or write it.

"Yes." He just says when he answer the phone.

He knows the excuses before they will sail in. He isn't in the mood.

Hearing a voice and remembering it, Thomas learned in the past, are two very different things.

" I was there."

"Seems I wasn't." He just says, shuffling bare feet through the bathroom, avoiding to look at himself in the mirror. 'Your call, pretty boy, you asked and disappeared. People are pissed off by what you did."

"Are you?"

"Pissed? Nah. You disappointed me. You burned me bad with this hot cold thing. Different. People don't know you like I do. And also," Thomas scratches his nose , surprised by the flatness of his tone. "Some are pretty dead."

"Yes. I know that. A lot, actually. Not just your friend."

Tristan never was his friend but Thomas is sure this isn't the right moment to discuss it.

Maven sounds matter of fact.

Thomas wants to smash his head against the wall until he doesn't have to think about it anymore. Instead he hugs his legs, pulling them hard into his chest.

"Thomas, what do you want me to say?" Maven asks. "I admitted I made a mistake. I can't turn back time. What's done is done."

"What's done-"Thomas repeats in disbelief, feeling the color drain from his face. "This isn't about spilled milk, Mave." It's just a voice from the other side of the town but he could as well be on the other side of the planet. "I still love you, but this is wrong, on so many levels."

There's the slightest crack, the tiniest hesitation. For a second Thomas feels like a shooting star raining down and being stared at in wonder. But it doesn't matter. No, he thinks in pain, it does. But too little. "You still love me?"

"Of course I love you." Thomas pushes his hair out of his face, fingertips resting on his scalp." I always loved you, you pretty, messed up thing. With all your fear nagging and your control freak attitude. I never ever stopped loving you. Why would I go through all this shit if I didn't? You're really the worst with feelings."

Thomas ponders if he should just take his leave. This talk isn't fixing anything. It's just making things worse. It's draining his body of strength and makes his head pound.

"This isn't helping, "he whispers. "I can't do anything. This is what I didn't want. This pushing and pulling and this MESS. Please get help. Cause I can't do it."

"For whatever it is worth." Maven says from his side of the phone call, and if his hand would have gripped Thomas he'd not root him in place more effectively. "You are important to me, Thomas."

"No no, I ain't going that road. " Thomas huffs. "Not on the phone. Sorry I said anything. Shouldn't."

"A lot of things have happened." Says the voice on the other side, and by the sound of it, barely keeping it together. Angry, desperate, who can tell with the master of masks. "One more chance, Thomas. To explain myself. To make you understand."

He should walk away now. Ironically, make it a clean cut, as Elara told him. But for himself this time.

"You'll tell me what's going on. " Thomas demands with his last ounce of patience. "You will say it to my face. And you will NOT try to lie or maneuver around or I swear I will never even spit your way."


	8. Keep it kicking

_**[AN] Thanks for sticking with me. I kind of had a meltdown and reorganized everything , but I saved all your comments from the single works and I keep them on my phone to stare whenever I can't get words out. Daisey you are too kind. And Serenitia and Lightning-Witch too. You guys keep me kicking. Thanks to RibbitRabbit for letting me pester her with stuff in the middle of the night on discord too. And now, on with the plot.**_

* * *

It's the last days of summer and as fast as it gets colder outside as fast it gets colder inside Thomas.

He's been waiting for this day a while. He half expects that waiting is in vain again.

This time he won't leave a hint of a promise.

It is a little like roulette to find out which Maven will come to talk.

It could be the anxious one, slowly loosing his grip on reality and trying to hold onto Thomas with everything he got, making them do things they regret and can't forget.

It could be stone cold Maven with the blank face, snapping and hiding, not able to remotely show if he understands the impact his actions have.

Maybe he's just going to mock Thomas, or he just tries to lie again.

He always lies. Even when he is honest.

And now he has even taking up Thomas master skills of avoiding and disappearing and moved them to another otherworldly level.

He's ushered his sister away under false pretences. He almost feels guilty.

"Move it, got a date. You need to leave."

"Oh no." His sister says. "If this is about _you know who_ people will rip you apart, Tommy."

"Yeah, no worries, it's something else. "He shrugs and looks at something behind her ear so he doesn't have to lie directly in her face. "Thomas is a free elf now."

In truth, Thomas is the most unfree creature there ever was. He's overthinking everything.

Thomas was sure he'd punch Maven straight in the face. Or kiss him and never let go. Maybe both. The good old kiss slappery-doo.

All he does is exhale a nervous dry chuckle when he sees his face in front of the door.

He sees the eyes wander over him, without betraying anything.

Like he didn't expect they'd play this game again.

The blue eyes stop at the flames curling down Thomas fingers, grapping the doorframe with force.

From the rundown clothes and Thomas bare feet, toes twitching to Maven's new shoes and the dark coat he's hiding his hunched shoulders in. There's still traces of the boy Thomas left behind but they are small and it seems whatever is happening with Maven is swallowing those too.

 _Look who's even more fancy and less geeky, all dressed up._

The difference between their appearance is mocking and blatantly obvious, almost offensive. He still can't stop the artist and the weak heart of the street rat to take in every bit, eyes wandering.

They stare at each other like strangers in the dark, trying to find out the intention of that shadow walking behind one.

"I have been expecting you," Thomas says in the pale imitation of a moustache twirling villain. He's doing it again. Coping with fun. And bad puns.

Not the first bad pattern one of them repeats.

The second bad step follows like a thief stealing through the night, because his body just isn't fast enough to move out of the way and they brush. Thomas body thinks of the way this ended the last time, and boy, it's doing the wrong things to his poor head.

Wait, his brain says, wait wait, that is NOT talking. That is sending the wrong signals, dude, cut it.

Psssht, Thomas racing pulse tells him off, let it go. Who needs talking anyway.

Lucky enough the bad call ends before it begins because they both flinch back and Thomas moves, deciding this is it.

Talking is never their strong suit. Something between them makes it impossible to have a serious and long lasting discussion. It ends in silence or fighting. Or at least it used to. Thomas tells himself he's grown up enough to pretend to be an adult.

"I am glad you agreed to meet me."

Thomas crosses his legs and leans over the old scratched wood, trying to take in every twitching muscle in Maven's face, to sniff out the lies if they come.

"Would have met you weeks ago but you ducked." He's surprised he's sounding not as hurt as he feels. Only a little hard.

"I was," Maven answers, folding his hands. "Out of balance. As that voicemail should prove. That was ill advised. As was that...night I spent here."

"And here I hoped you'd finally put a ring on my finger." Thomas shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. "I agree tho. Wasn't doing any good to us both. But when you came here you told me you had made a mistake. So don't pin it on me being there."

"I am not _blaming_ anything on you, Thomas." The way he says it is almost diplomatic. Rational. "In fact, I consider you the only remotely trustworthy person around me at the moment. And I meant it when I said you don't deserve a bad treatment when you were good to me. You cannot imagine how much I appreciate your willingness to listen."

Oh, flattery, Thomas thinks, nice. Too bad my self inflicted hatred forbids to take too much of it. "And whose fault is it people turn away?"

Maven looks like he just bit a particular sour lemon, pressing his lips together.

"I meant what I said too." Thomas leans on his arm. "I love you. But you disappointed me. And you shit on people that trusted you. You shit on a person you claimed to be in love with."

And you shit on me too, he thinks, not saying it. Because that has no place in all this. That's personal. And the worst of all, leaving each other is very mutual by now.

"I said everything about her you need to know."

Thomas knits his brows but doesn't disagree, leaning only further on his arm, covering his mouth with his hand.

 _My brother always got everything._

There was spite in the way Maven said that. And Thomas has spent enough time with him to remember that despite all the attempts and the care and the way the brothers acted, there's something else on Maven's side too.

True, there is something real, because that look in the cinema wasn't fake or planned and the way he bristled under Thomas accusations was too.

Maybe that's just part of what it is. Of the whole world. One bit desperation, a little jealousy, sprinkled with truth.

"But it's true, yeah? You messed up knowing it would turn bad for her and my friends."

"You're an artist, Thomas." Maven's blue eyes seem to see through Thomas for a moment before he lowers his gaze, unfolding his hands and resting them on the scratched table, palms down. First strike, Thomas thinks. That's the master maneuvers he knows. "When you paint or draw, is there one substantial truth or do people see the things they want?"

"Fancy words." Thomas bites his lip hard, concentrating high. He takes his head off his hand and lets his arms fall on the table. The wood is cold. It's cooling his skin through the faded sleeves of his jacket. "Bit iffy tho. I draw things the way I want. I got intentions."

"Intentions," something bitter curls around Maven's lips.

"Yeah, pretty boy, intentions. Reasons. Call it what you want. Just offer anything."

"My interest was in leaving an impression."

"You did. With a bang. "

"I did not think it would turn that bad. The whole tower was on fire suddenly. It wasn't my idea. You have to believe me, Thomas." Thomas almost flinches when Maven's hand wanders over the table and crushes Thomas fingers between his own.

"Let's say I do." Thomas answers and tries to ease the grip a bit. "Let's say I believe you did it because you and your mother have this thing. Your family is a mess, dude, but you know it."

"You don't know anything about my mother. Or what she is capable of."

Thomas doesn't say anything and just feels the finger holding onto him, cradling the flames on his skin. Unlike the brushing bodies on the doorstep he doesn't feel anything under the fingertips.

They are just two broken things in a sea of trash and shattered glass. It was the resemblance to his own insecurity that made Thomas try and get to know him and now it's just the same. Two stones sinking, two tiny pieces of something. If the universe has a punchline prepared, it hasn't showed it yet. If there's a joke, Thomas cannot find it.

Maybe it's just the way things go. Sometimes you find something you can't leave alone. And it isn't what you ever expected. But it's the only one you have. So you hold on tight until the end of the ride. You bite your lips and let the world rush by. You let the thoughts wander and the hurt knocks again.

It burns too bright and moves too fast, like the rest of the world.

It's not like he expected the world to come around. He knew it would end badly when he crashed into Maven and could not stop thinking about him that summer day the red van got him from the parking lot.

He wanted to think there was a blackmail or a misunderstanding.

But now that he looks into this face he sees the truth. Yes, the boy is broken and messed up.

Yes, his mother is a stone cold bitch.

Maybe he was pressured. He was hurt. Yes, Thomas did his part in it.

But still. Still there isn't a suitable excuse to make.

And who'd want to make more excuses than Thomas, defender of the villains, as Maven titled mocking once? Not for this, though.

"Just one thing I really need to know," he asks. Thomas pulls his hand back, out of the grip ,the fingers brushing over the flames. "And whatever you say, pretty boy, be honest. _Please._ "

Thomas waits until he's sure he has Maven's fullest attention and at least one little gaze up in his face.

"You sorry?"

He seemed prepared for that question. At least there's nothing in his pale face suggesting surprise. Instead Thomas sees the fingers on the table clasp together again and the lips are forming a thin line again.

"I admitted I made a mistake. And things...went off the tracks."

That's not regret. Thomas thinks. If he wasn't disappointed and hurt already he'd probably feel something stronger than the weak letdown he's experiencing.

"Still went through with it when you left." Thomas shrugs. "You let them in. You didn't warn anyone. You leaned back and enjoyed the show."

"I know what I did and didn't do, Thomas. No need to recount. That night before the party I came here because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Thomas huffs.

"I thought what you would say when everything goes down." There's something wondering in Maven's voice. " And I needed to say it, at least tell you about it. You were my conscience, Thomas."

"I must be a shitty conscience when you still go through with it." Thomas mutters. "And you shouldn't need another person to know that what you did was wrong. I am not your fix, Mave. I never was and I CAN'T."

Because love can't fix a person's head, Thomas thinks. However hard you try. Or want to.

"I know I never could reciprocate your feelings the way you insisted." Maven looks lost in the topic.

"This is NOT about me. I'm not your magical wand solving problems. " Thomas snorts. "This is about you getting over thinking accepting help is weakness. This is about Barrow whooping your ass. And Farley, for that matter. Face it, pretty boy, it's getting worse if it stays this way."

There's silence between them and Maven stares at Thomas like he lost his mind completely.

"I am not handing myself over." If he means Barrow or himself accepting any kind of treatment, Thomas can't say. It's a simple cold refusal.

"Then don't." Thomas shrugs. He feels too calm. This isn't like he thought this would be. "But don't come to my doorstep at night ever again. I have enough problems without you, Mave."

That's it, that's the last call. Things went wrong so much. There was no easy reconnection to begin with. And they both went through too much to handle it. There were bad habits and unhealthy moments, unstable and dangerous. And the whole thing is crushing now. It's falling like a house of cards.

There's nothing much left to say. Maven gets up. Takes his coat. Thomas gets up. Doesn't know where to look.

They move through the tiny floor like rabbits chasing through a tunnel.

"Not too late to change your mind, pretty boy." Thomas says, gripping the doorframe the second time this night. "Think it through. Got the smarts. Use them."

"Didn't you say you didn't want to be my conscience?" the voice is blank but underneath lurks something else and it makes Thomas toenails curl. It's angry and snapping.

"I'm not saying anything because I wanna get high and mighty." For a second he just wants to collapse on the doorstep, because he's tired of it all. " I say it cause I want you in my life. But I can't if you don't do something."

"Goodbye Thomas."

He turns on his heels and leaves without waiting for Thomas to answer.

He doesn't make up his mind. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe Thomas mistook the small grains of empathy and emotional exposure. The only thing he knows for sure is that he's not standing on his doorstep in the middle of the night. That's equally good as it is bad.

It's still tiresome. One week feels like a year. Thomas doesn't leave his cozy spot on his bed much. He doesn't even bother to shower. People have to pry him from the laptop. He spends too many hours awake and drawing, too many times in chats and discussions. He looks at too many pictures of Maven and he sees Barrows face all over the place. The girl is becoming the poster picture of rebellion. Suits her. But must suck. No wonder she's nowhere to be found in his circles.

Someone says she's got beef up the hills and he can only imagine a very out of his mind boy is burning bridges once and for all.

It's creepy how many people have too much time and no borders. Thomas is glad once more to be a bystander on the side lines. Because the only pictures people snap of him are his works and not his face.

At the end of the week Thomas decides it's time to face it. That he will never see Maven again, and that's for the best. They ditch each other all the time only to come back and maybe there's no healthy way to stay together.

That's when the news are spitting and people get crazy over again. It sets the balance off even more.

He looks at the headline and feels a pang of very curious sympathy.

Maven's father has died.

When he finally decides to leave his spot on the bed and calls someone in the middle of the night, it's not Maven.

The concrete walls are the same as the day Thomas left them, shivering dead and cold, wandering through the snow. Now there's only a small cold breeze creeping under his hood and lying on the fluttering fabric of his dark scarf.

Her figure moves fast and is barely visible in the darkness.

"Hey lightning girl." Thomas says, pulling on the fabric of his hood before leaning towards the railing and watching her climb up. "That's what they call you this day, isn't it?"

There's something grim dark in her eyes. Wow, he thinks, great job, pissing her off before you even had a chance to talk to her. "And what do they call you?"

"Idiot mostly." He extends his hands and she grabs it. He pulls her up the latter. "Thought I'd see you with a squad or shit. Not safe all alone."

"Bringing a squad would send you running." Her eyes are darting around the skeleton roof. As if she is sure he has brought someone else. As if he'd ever even be able to keep a straight face for a trap.

"Oh, know me so well." He snorts. His eyes dart down the roof, listening for any suspicious sound. She's right not to trust this place or anything in this city. "Let's keep it short, yeah? We're on the same side."

Her eyes are resting on the flames and he thinks it may have not been the best idea ever to have THAT late night session. It's as if everyone remotely familiar with his history knows exactly the intention behind it.

"Are we?"

"Yeah, Guard and all, y'know." He shrugs. "I'm not as cool and my only good fighting quality is taking a few hits. Nose is ugly enough no one really cares it has been broken. Still."

They look at each other for a moment, cool wind brushing through hair.

"I just...I know how it is with that boy. He can leave a mark." Thomas blows out a stream of air. "Tough getting out of something like that. At least one of us should."

At the mention of Maven something in her face drastically changes. Like every bit of positive feeling has been drained out of her veins. It's not the aggressive sneering he knows from Cameron's everyday display but something deeper. It's deep rooted and it hurts.

"I knew this was about him." She says.

He sighs. "Yeah, sorry. But would you have made it if I told you?"

The answer is obviously in her face and the drawn back shoulders.

"Just wanted to offer, you talk it out, ok? Tell me so you don't bottle it up."

"You were always a nice guy, Thomas. A little weird, but the good way." She says. "But I don't need to talk anything out."

He draws his eyebrows together. "Sure?"

They aren't particularly cuddly towards each other. They never were. And Thomas isn't stupid enough to take the blame for Maven's shit. If someone told him he's responsible he'd do the Cameron an flip them off.

He still feels he owes Barrow. Some part of him wants this all to end good. And she's doing this because she wants a better thing.

He's fine with waiting for any kind of answer.

She bristles. "I spit in his face the last time we met." The words are like the angry spitting themselves.

Despite the serious situation Thomas puffs out a chuckle in disbelief. "I knew you can get ugly. Really? Spitting. Wow."

They share a long moment of silence in the wind, hair fluttering, fabric rustling.

"What about you?"

" Nah, Lightning," he smiles at her, a little lost in hazy memories. "I'm in too deep. Like, forever stuck." He leans against the metal bar beside her and she lets him.. "He was cute when we met. I mean, he had problems, sure, he kept it together. Didn't think he'd snap like this."

She looks at him as if he just popped up dressed like a clown. A little irritated and definitely wondering what's up with it, because no one, frankly put, NO ONE likes clowns. (They are an overused scary stereotype and not funny. And sometimes they are straight up weird. Mimes are fine though. Mostly.)

"Shit is fucked up." He ends and doesn't try to apologize for something he has no clue about.

She looks tired for a moment. She still keeps her head high. "Very fucked up."

"Keep on kicking." He forces himself to smile again.


	9. Dirt

Whenever he stares at the words on the screen of his phone or the laptop, there's one part anger and two parts lies spreading in front of him.

He always knew people can be true monsters, no claws or spikes required. There's the worst of the worst bottling in the small cone of interests.

There's a lot of nasty stuff about Barrow or Farley. Even some sort of mugshots from their faces, hair dirty and smeared with ashes and blood.

Mostly Barrow though, because the girl is born and raised in this city and it makes digging up dirt much easier. And also she's in the sights of another person altogether.

Oh, pretty boy, Thomas thinks, repeating the disappointment experience tour cause it's so much fun.

He can imagine the voice perfectly fine when he reads the words. They are crafted with the same careful intention as the flattery the night they broke things once and for all. They are rational and diplomatic, plugging a string and poking just right.

That's when he knows he's looked at too many things and turns down the internet for the rest of the night to catch at least some sleep.

It's not like he sleeps much anyway, not at night at least. Once upon a time, mere weeks ago he stayed up at night to be there for someone he loved. Now he stays up because he likes to be alone. He was never much of a crowd person, sure he went somewhere like concerts and stuff, but mostly because other people wanted or just to spite and show that he would. Younger Thomas was an idiot. Well, he still is an idiot. At least he knows it now.

There are two or three hours in the early morning, with the sun still down, when the world seems to stand still. It's like everyone takes a last deep breath, bracing themselves for another cruel business day.

Sometimes all Thomas does is sit on the tiny windowsill, little squashed, long limbs pulled up and crossed to fit.

He doesn't listen to music. He doesn't do a dramatic smoke in the dark. He just sits and stares, sorting through his head. Because despite whatever daylight Thomas says or how he smiles, there's a hole in his chest and it's hurting.

On some rare occasions, he's outside, tagging along with the people that use their spray bottles to leave messages and pictures over the city.

But those guys and gals are fast and climbing like monkeys. They are nice enough, and they clearly have some respect because they like his works. He rarely sees a face behind a scarf pulled over a nose or a hood deep in a face, but he knows them by now. You remember the way someone moves, especially when that's all you really can rely on. They are like a flock of crows, all dressed black, flying over roofs and down alleys.

He likes the way the wind flows around their heads and the city pulses when they run. He likes the feeling of being alive. But he's still not sure he could do it every night. He is only weight on their ankles.

"Hey Inky, " one of the says, because of the flames and the steel that blink through whenever his sleeves get pushed up a little. For a second Thomas sees a small stripe of dark skin and hair when his hood is pushed back. "Need to be careful now. Tower territory isn't safe since that night."

"Yeah, I know. Was on the streets." He says, checking his boot. Thomas has the agile gracefulness of a giraffe sliding over ice most times. Another reason he isn't tagging along too often. Not that he couldn't run or climb. Street rat days still stick, but he's gotten lazier since he can spend his day in bed. And he just doesn't look parcoury or cool while doing it. Just like the rabbit he is he dashes away.

"And got out? Had a friend, still in prison."

"Sucks," Thomas answers remembering the stench and the full cell.

There's the faintest glimmering of a headlight in the distance. If you break curfew there's a big chance you get hurt badly. They don't really care about excuses.

Last years living on the street was beefy. Nowadays the nights are even crueler. At least he knows Cameron has a place to stay.

"Move _move_ ," someone whispers. And they do it. Fast.

Some very rare times he gets calls at night. Never from one person in particular. But more of a mixed bag. Whenever he gets the urge to reach out and destroy his fragile balance he puts the phone away and stares at it like it's a bomb that needs to be defused.

"I thought about calling." He tells Cameron the next day. "Because it freaking hurts. Maybe..."

" Maybe you are a moron." She just scowls.

Sometimes she hits him. He wants to hug her. The days she stays are the least lonely.

He's a little surprised, but in a positive way when a certain sparky girl calls him.

"Changed your mind about talking it out, did you, Lightning?" He says, sitting in his usual spot, hugging his blanket because it's turning autumn and 'his skinny ass' as Cameron likes to say, gets cold fast.

"Not really. Not like you want to. What IS there to say we both don't know?"

"As someone being royally screwed by him, in more than one way, I'd say there's a lot more you can spill."

"And what? Cry? Do you want us to sit on a bed the whole night and talk about all the ways he mistreated you?"

Talk about attitude, Thomas thinks but smiles into the darkness. "Nah, not really. I have sisters. Been there done that. No fun, really. And I suck at braids. Just well, you let it go. Told you, being bottled up is no good."

The long boiling pause speaks for itself. "He pretended to be my friend. He was considerate and nice and he listened to everything."

Thomas doesn't dare to say anything. Not when he was the one walking away when Maven was considerate of him. Oh boy, he thinks, what if? Always what if.

"And then I took him with me and he played me."

"Don't sweat it, " Thomas stares out of the window into the light polluted sky. Smog and no stars. Then he shifts on the small windowsill, long legs drawn up to his chest. "He was kinda lonely. So I think at least some parts were true. And I...he said he was in love with you."

"He told you that?"

"So you know."

She doesn't answer his assumption. "But you two have history."

"Oh girl," Thomas chuckles to cloak his hoarse voice. "Do we have history. Told you. Royally screwed. Can't say I did nothing wrong tho. Tried to come back and at least be a friend."

"Risky guess," she sounds just as dark and dry as he feels. "It did not work."

"You know it," Thomas says. " Remember? I'm in too deep. Whatever was going on never really hit it off. I mean, there was some truth. Just not big enough."

Static noise and her footsteps. He looks out of the window again and wonders where she is. If she's alone. Probably, she wouldn't talk to him about something so deep and personal if someone was watching. She's hard on the outside, not letting it show. Thomas pushes himself into functioning normally enough every day to notice everyone likes to pretend they are better or stronger than they truly are.

That's the deal. You get over it or get eaten.

"You don't wanna lie down on my couch and want to be emotional, you don't."

"Appreciated."

"Cool. So you don't want to talk it out," Thomas says, leaning back. "And we are no besties. So why call in the dead of night?"

"You've known him for a while."

"Yeah, so? What's that matter?" he snorts. " I did think I know him. Not sure anymore. "

"Look, you said we were on the same side, Thomas. And I don't think he is done. So why don't you use-"

"That's why you call? To ask me for a little dirt?" He sighs. "Lightning, I admire you, you're cool. I love my friends and I hate how this is going. But no."

He doesn't even know why. Maybe it's just idiot Thomas doing his thing. Maybe it's just stuck under his skin. _In fact, I consider you the only remotely trustworthy person around me at the moment._

Not like he'd deserve Thomas acting like the gate keeper to the hell of his secrets and attitudes. He wishes he could be angry instead of stupid sad. Channel a bit of that Cookie Cameron, he thinks. Or a little Lightning. They aren't shy to let it go and tell people off.

Instead, he laughs it off like always until no one is watching.

Time has a very strange effect. Especially when the rest of the world moves along without caring much about the things that go on in your head. Some things get hazy, better than they really were. Sometimes he wonders about all the what ifs. Of course that is fruitless.

The hollow hole stays in his chest. He gets along somehow. Just as the world.

At least his friends are relatively safe compared to the big bang. There's some sort of collective sigh, a preparation for the next big battle. And oh, the battle will come. As someone standing on the sidelines he's not sure what to make of it. Technically it's his fight too. It's not like he doesn't want to.

He feels like a spectator. Doesn't sit so right. Like he's floating over his body watching the room.

Maybe that's why he tries to hang out with Barrow again. Or maybe it's just to soothe his guilty conscience because he thought some mean shit when he was jealous.

She picks him up one evening . They don't talk. Walking in silence alongside, hands in pockets, kicking pebbles. Keeping an eye out for trouble.

The house is more like a creepy cabin at the outskirts of the city. Creaking door and dark hall and all. But it's not so bad compared to anything Thomas has ever lived in.

"Nice hideout." Thomas whistles through his teeth. "Nicer than my place."

Mare throws her bag at the couch. "It's temporary. But yeah."

When Thomas turns around, he's faced with someone he's been rather actively avoiding.

Thomas stares at Cal in rabbit heart terror.

For the longest of moments, none of them move.

"Lightning," Thomas says. "Didn't tell me you had a visitor. I can go if you don't-eh."

" No ill feelings, Thomas." Cal answers. "In fact, I live here."

"Oh." There's a very strong indication behind that words. Not living at home. Instead of hiding with the poster girl of rebellion. "He shit on you too?"

"On everything by now." Cal answers. " He and his mother seized control. And they didn't wait before our father's body was cold."

"Sorry to hear. And sorry cause.. y'know. Your father. And... Liking someone who's hurting you is always shitty."

Cal looks like he bites on granite the way his teeth are grinding behind his closed mouth.

"Thank you, Thomas."

Thomas makes a helpless huff.

He stands still for a moment, unsure if he should follow. But Barrow just sits down on the table. So he just takes the place next to her and is surprised to find himself in the 'Maven tossed us away' sandwich, perched together.

Maybe this will become regular. Like a book club.

There's an as blaring out from the speakers of a laptop on the table.

Thomas doesn't have time to ask what he's watching on a live stream platform.

" _We're back from our short break,_ " a pretty girl says and Thomas remembers faintly something about her having some kind of video channel, all fancy and successful. She's some kind of internet celebrity. His sister used to eat her stuff despite her being silver. She's drop-dead gorgeous, of course, with dark skin and long floaty hair, perfect fit. There's something so false and fake about her he never could watch more than a few seconds.

In another life, Thomas would have been worried because Maven looks pale and not really healthy. He would have urged for help or given a hug. All he feels now is a creeping cold, accompanied by an unsettling uncertainty.

He can't follow the words or the very court expression on Maven's face.

It's like someone translated the whole world in klingon and put it upside down.

" _But weren't you and your brother friends with Mare Barrow?_ " the girl asks innocent enough, playing coy. " _I think we can agree we're here for that evening at the towers. If you want to talk about it. I know it was bad for me, it was unexpected and frightening when the shots went off._ "

There's havoc in the chat window next to the stream. He sees some red suns sprinkled in, but it's mostly wild questions by the way question marks and capslock flies by.

" _It was a very disturbing evening._ " Maven says.

"Disturbing?" Barrow asks, hollow.

Cal just breathes very slow, staring at his brother.

Thomas can empathize.

 _"If people actually believe a word from a terrorist group that makes a mentally unstable and dangerously angry girl their figurehead, a girl that was involved in murder, responsible for all of this destruction, burning a whole tower and planting bombs_ ," Maven says straight into the camera, pausing, and Thomas didn't know he could be so dramatically intense. Well studied act. He thinks about the times Maven internally seemed to freak and overclock in a full room and talked about social calls. How things change. " _They are either naive or blind. The riots have proven the that despite their claims, the Scarlet Guard is not fighting for any rights. They are not negotiating. They are not asking. They are demanding. And they just demand death and blood. They don't want anything but cold war and the annihilation of silver blood. They claim to be fighting for freedom. They are not_."

People eating him up in the chat. The girl smiles.

"Yeah," Thomas mutters. "Piss in their boots and tell them it's raining, pretty boy."

He's the only one saying a word. Thomas dares to look at the faces next to him.

Barrow looks like she's about to explode. Her face is a mask barely cloaking her anger and hatred, but there's something else and he remembers the way she spoke on the phone and how the energy drained out the first time he tried to talk it out with her.

He does not dare to say anything to her.

" _As for my brother_ -'

To his other side, Cal shifts in his seat.

By the looks of it, he's not as vicious as Barrow, but he's far from calm.

Oh boy, Thomas thinks. Maven better never set a foot close to one of them. He'll be dead in no time.

" _My brother chose his side. It pains me to admit that, it really does._ " Liar, liar, pants on fire, Thomas thinks and feels the need to scrub his skin with bleach.

" _But he didn't choose the right one. He had such a promising future. People call him a traitor. And perhaps that is how we should address the issue. Turning on his own people. Who would have thought-_ '

"Okay," Thomas pushes the button and the laptop dies, with a last white flickering face of Maven's face. "Enough. All in for self-hate and pain. But this is enough."

This is going way too far. Way. This isn't at all the disturbed boy telling him not to leave him alone. This isn't the hands that let him stay when he was homeless and shivering.

It's like needles under his skin. And not the kind Thomas enjoys there.

"Please tell me you have something to drink in your hideout. Cause if I ever wanted to get black drunk and fucked up, it's now."

The club acquires a bottle and Thomas just burns away the very poor rest of his taste buds.

There's a very elaborate boiling silence, hanging over their heads like a dark cloud.

At least Barrow keeps up with drinking.

"He didn't say a word about you." Mare watches Thomas with that clown look again. "He never does, really. He mentioned you once and it wasn't much. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought you were dead."

Thomas drinks and coughs. "Why would he tho? He always kept me hush hush. No need to pull me out of the closet if no one knows."

"True enough," Cal says, arms crossed, leaning back. " It would hurt him more than help. People could make the wrong.. assumption."

"Right dude," Thomas toasts him even if he doesn't feel like it. "Doesn't line up with us poor devils being the problem if people knew he used to smooch one. Also, I'm clearly not some pretty girl. Doesn't help the conservative run." Thomas drinks the rest of the glass and shudders. The taste is mean. But it's allowed if it makes him feel better. He doesn't feel like stopping. " I mean he could pull the mean card on me leaving. But that would be very personal. And good old Mom always wanted me to be gone. So win-win if I stay quiet."

"Good old Mom." Mare takes the bottle out if Thomas' hands.

"I met her once. That's enough for a life time." Thomas says, and for the longest while the thought of her on the bench doesn't even make him angry.

There's just a snort from Cal's side of the table and Thomas chuckles and drinks.

His phone makes a plopping sound in his pocket.

Maybe his sister is wondering where he's at. It's past curfew. He didn't tell her he would stay away.

It's the unknown number he never even bother to label. There's just one other message from weeks ago, saying it found the cockatrice.

Thomas slides the notification away and doesn't read it. Then he puts his phone down on the table.

"Give the bottle back, Lightning. Sharing is caring." He says instead.

"You lost this fight before it has begun," Cal says from his corner.

"You underestimate me, good sir." Barrow doesn't look too fazed by his half-assed attempt to grab it. "I never know when to stop."

A little tug of war breaks out before Thomas gets to have the bottle and his phone plops again.

"Someone seems eager to talk to you."

"Eh." Thomas is at least glad he never labeled the name to the number. Or this friendly evening would be over NOW. "You know how it is, dude. People always want something. Oh, almost forgot." Thomas leans down to his old trusty bag and pulls a folder out. Thomas has spent some time thinking about the things he read, and wehn he couldn't shake it off, he decided to let it go in the only way he ever learned to cope. Putting her on his skin was out of question. But paper, or at least drawing, that seemed like a good idea.

"Y'know, Lightning, you're all over the place. But those pictures are meh or seriously only meant to be mean. So I thought, if you want, I got something for you. Cause you're cool."

"Thomas, you can stop telling me that," Mare says and gives him the tiniest of huffs.

"Just take it," Cal answers. "He means it."

"Eh, of course I do?" Thomas slides to folder over to her.

"I hope I got you right," he scratches his nose. "I mean, I got it on the laptop, obviously, so I can change stuff, but I grew up on paper, so I..dunno. Wanted to give it to you."

"I knew you were good." Cal says, staring at her face in black and white, illuminated by some sort of high voltage sign in the background.

"That's-" Barrow starts and his phone interupts in a chime now. "Goddamit, Thomas. Answer or turn it off."

Turning it off would be healthy. There was almost something relaxed between them. He almost saw them smile.

"I think I need to step out for a second. Play nice." Thomas swallows hard on a bitter taste in his mouth.

The air kisses his skin in a cool whisper. He just closes the door and answers the call.

Maven doesn't wait for Thomas to say anything. "I don't like being ignored, Thomas."

Thomas only reaction is a deep breath. "Didn't I tell you not to pop up again until you had it under control?"

"I consider myself very much in control."

Thomas makes the loudest fart sound he can muster.

" And I also figured you would still be angry." Maven's voice sounds stiff and cold.

"Nice show," Thomas mocks. "Really, super convincing."

"Thank you, Thomas." Someone says the second time this evening and it could not be more indifferent and in a much more stark contrast to his brother.

"You got some low blows out." Thomas leans against the wall, holding his head not to lose it." Talking trash about Barrow. Seriously. And your brother too? Like.. the only person in your family supportive enough?!"

"I didn't mention you, so don't worry about your reputation."

"Ahahahah. Repu _what_?" Thomas snorts, thinking how he had the same discussion. " I got _nothing_ you can destroy. Try me, pretty boy."

"Confidence." Maven acknowledges. "You sound drunk."

"Even if I were so drunk I'd dance bare-assed on the moon." Thomas can't stop the irritating feeling creeping up his spine. "I mean it. Stop the smear campaign, silver prince. Or I forget I still like you and join in. Can't imagine you want that."

"You wouldn't."

"Why? Cause I love you? Thanks for reminding me. Almost forgot."

"No, because you are kind, Thomas."

"Fuck being kind. Fight fire with fire or whatever they say." He doesn't bother to ask why Maven even called.  
He just hangs up and turns his phone off. Taking deep breaths. Trying not to puke.


	10. Mud

The evening ends as one can expect. The bottle is empty but Thomas isn't done. It's the middle of the week and thanks to the kind of control their favorite liar and his mother have over too many aspects of their lives and the city, they decide it's not really a good idea to make a move if they don't have a very good plan. Somewhere along the road of too much too drink and talking nonsense to keep the bad mood off, Barrow and Cal move a little closer together. They don't touch but that's not the point. They are used to be brushing along the edges of one another's comfort zones.

Thomas isn't blind enough to ignore that something that's going between them. And he doesn't comment when they move to sleep into the same room. None of his business. At least they have something to hold onto when the dreams get worse and the sleep won't come.

People get what they need, he guesses. He's not jealous. They fit alright. Like all the times he watches his rebel parents he can't just stop thinking if he's just not compatible. If something is wrong with his head if the only person he really wants to be with is doing no good. They push and pull and hurt. It's gotta be me, he thinks. Who could love a mess like Thomas?

Something normal would be nice. Like, hugging under a blanket and laughing at his jokes. Eat unhealthy food and talk about shit. Someone easy on the eyes, someone simple and good. No emotional baggage weighing so heavy there's not even a normal conversation.

He just curls together on a couch again. Oh, couch crashing. It always seems to bring back the worst thoughts and the losses.

He feels just lonely and the hole just a hollow jump into nothingness at the prospect of staying alone. He wonders what Maven was about to say on the phone. And if it has any meaning at All.

When he lies in the darkness he turns his phone on again.

He reads the messages.

Nothing much. Senseless blubbering about how ridiculous he's behaving for going through with his threat of ignoring Maven. Then there's sugar coating, apologies that twist the problems and words in Maven's favor. There's no regret. There's nothing really. He gives a rat shit about Thomas. He just can't stand to lose. There are flattery and thinly veiled threats.

Thomas is stuck with a bitter breath, half laughing, half wanting to cry before he deletes it all.

He doesn't write back. They made their calls. Now they need to wait for the next bluff.

And then the cards get on the table.

Thomas isn't sure he has the better ones, but he's not backing down.

And at least one thing is true. What CAN that boy destroy anymore Thomas hasn't already lost? There's nothing.

The next day he's sincerely hung over and regrets life choices like always. At least people let him hang around in his zombie state. Barrow is off somewhere, but when he moves around the small house and follows rummaging and scattered metal sounds he finds Cal on the porch, sleeves rolled up and hands dirty. There's a girl with him, little older than Thomas. Her amber eyes take in everything. He thinks he's seen her before and remembers her name after a few long seconds of staring. Ada something.

She holds a screwdriver. "If you tweak it, it will last longer, I have seen it before."

"True, but if you don't fix the damage, the engine can't-"

The words bring Thomas back to the morning he tried to fix the pedal and he feels like vomiting again because everything in his life seems to be about blue eyes and hands gripping him tightly.

Their eyes follow Thomas scramble along, almost falling over some metal thing on the porch.

"Sorry." He just says jumping over the bigger parts. The agile gracefulness of a giraffe sliding over ice. The light burns through his eyelids when he narrows them. Grey light hidden behind clouds.

"Going home?"

"Yup. Need a shower. Tell Lightning to call if something comes up." He tries to smile. "I mean, you too, dude. If I can help or stuff."

"Thomas," Cal answers, slow, and Thomas thinks he'll just tell him off. "You're a good kid. You tried."

"Yeah, I guess I did. "Thomas says, not believing it. "Thanks, pal."

"You wear your shirt wrong," Ada says.

Thomas stares at the hoodie, inside out. "Eh. Can sport it. Had worse."

At least there's no other call for him. Maven has vanished again, and Thomas is glad he doesn't try and call again. More and he's sure he couldn't take it.

Thomas still has to check every once in a while for another verbal or text blurb, and staring at the words and the face makes him uneasy and a little sick. Though that could still only be the hangover. He's still telling shit to people, but he's very careful in his wording.

 _That's what I thought_ , Thomas thinks. _Don't want to get me to spill the beans, pretty boy._

He's not exactly proud to be in some crazy choke hold, threatening with dirty laundry and blackmailing. But if that's what it takes, he will take out all the trash and truths he can find. Oh boy, where to start.

Thomas doesn't think it will truly be the end. But one can hope.

He doesn't leave his bed for two days, curled up on his arm.

"This isn't healthy, Tommy." His sister says when she finds him on his spot at the window, staring at his cracked phone. "Have you eaten today at all?"

"When was I ever?" he huffs." I'm not hungry."

"I'll get Cameron to beat you up."

"Yeah, she'll just throw the phone at the wall and tell me I am an idiot. I know all about it."

" Joining in was the dumbest thing they ever let you do." She's irritated, he can see it in her face. Can't hold it against her. He lost his job and he just sits on his ass the whole day or runs around town. He's almost back to street rat low. "You can't spend your life in front of that screen and wait for this...for you know who to either lose it or come back to you."

"He's not coming back to me. Why would he?" Thomas looks at her but doesn't really see her. "And I don't wanna have him like this anyway."

He's sincerely and deeply disappointed again when the ceasefire doesn't last.

He can't really bring himself to listen to the words, but it's pretty much what he expected. It's dirty. It's poisonous. It's twisting and turning and just like every other word Maven has said in the past weeks.

For a while, Thomas just sits on his bed, unable to move, trying to concentrate hard. The anger is flaring through his body like a firework, burning his soul and singeing what little rationality is still trying to get through.

Telling someone off is probably not among the rational decisions. His finger still fly over the screen of his cracked phone.

 ** _I told you to leave them alone. You made a bad choice, silver prince._**

He hasn't really anticipated anything. But the reply flies back fast.

 **We'll see about that.**

Thomas is not fond at all of the way this sounds. He was hoping for surrender. But that boy wouldn't surrender if his life depended on it. _Pride, oh yes, wrong pride, that will be your end. Let's see how deep you can fall._

 ** _I'll tell EVERYONE._**

Thomas writes and feels only a little dirty. It's a warning, and maybe it's even well deserved if it turns into more. Maybe it is just a continuation of the tug of war they started long ago, on a bench. Because Thomas knows everything has consequences.

 _ **U wanna risk it? Want Barrow and Farley to know how ugly you can cry?**_

 **Oh, Thomas.**

He can imagine the words said to his face, with the slightest shakes of his head and that tone, like Thomas knows NOTHING of this world. Sweet, sweet stupid Thomas.

Thomas wants to vomit. His hands are shaking. For a moment he leans his head against the wall, hair pressing against his face, cooling off, trying to.

When he's sure his voice isn't going to betray him he makes the decision to go through with it and just get it over. She picks up after the third ringing.

"So, Lightning," Thomas says, falling on the chair like a defeated soldier. "You want the dirt. I am ready. Where do we start? "

"You could just start at the beginning."

"Ah, well. Once upon a time" Thomas starts dry. " there was a homeless asshole and he met a pretty and awkward silver prince who had burned down a house. It was love at first sight. Well, at least for the asshole. The prince, eh. Who knows. At least he was sticking around and trying to be nice. It worked for a while. And it was the best thing ever. Until trouble kicked in."

All goes well for some more days. He feels a little satisfied because of letting it all out, all the hidden words, all the little things. Showing and exploiting another one's weakness is not what Thomas would want to. But oh please, he isn't backing down.

The fact Farley is practically ordering him to her new hideout has something concerning, and the fact she's not looking very happy is not good at all. Unhappy Farley means unhappy bunch of other people.

"Sit." she just says.  
Thomas swallows hard and sits on the uncomfortable chair, staring at the small desk and the brimming screen in front of him.  
"Mom, you're scaring me a little," he admits. "Am I grounded?"  
"You need to see something." She sits down next to him.  
"You could have just sent me a link." he huffs.  
"I think you'll be glad I called you."

Her finger hits the keys like little gunshots.

The title of the video gives him the creeps. It's something clickbaiting. There's even a broken heart emoji. A LOT of people have watched it.

Thomas stares at a familiar background and two chairs, and there's another pretty girl next to the boy he once loved.

 _"There were accusations that you were involved in the tower incident."_

 _"Of course there are. People planting bombs and killing in cold blood don't shy away from false testimony. I am quite positive this is coming from Mare Barrow and we both know you can't believe a word she says."_

"He crossed the line," Thomas whispers and gets up. "That's it. I'm gonna punch him."

Farley's hand grabs his shirt. "That is not why I told you to watch it."

 _"But do we really want to repeat all the same arguments? We have spoken about the tower, about the Scarlet Guard and about the family and friends I lost in all these terrible tragedies and despicable acts."_

 _"You lost so much. I didn't mean to pressure you."_ The girl says, looking sad and tilting her head into the camera for maximum efficiency. _"Is there something else you want to talk about?"_

" _There is, actually._ " Maven says. _"People accusing me of never remotely understanding the needs and the lives of Red people should know I am not acting out of spite for them. We all can keep the lives we built. If this stops now._ "

Yes, Thomas thinks. Let's keep the discrimination. The ghettoization. Let's keep the violence and the hopelessness. Keep the kids living on the streets and the families working themselves to death so you have a cozy big house with a big cozy bed and a big cozy pillow you can rest your stone cold head on.

 _"There is no assurance to whatever the Guard wants. There is no political stance and no administration supporting them. You want freedom. But has anyone ever thought about more than just overthrow things? You are not helping your situation. You are supporting murderers and terrorists."_

"Oh shit, please lemme go Diana." Thomas feels sick. He wiggles in her iron grip.

"Sit and watch." She demands, not letting go.

 _"And why would people believe you care to preserve their old lives?"_

 _"I was friends with a red boy once."_

Thomas' mouth gapes open.

 _"Granted, our history is that of the tragic kind. But he was my best friend. "_

There are a meaningful pause and a deep breath and again it's so perfectly dramatically intense Thomas is sure he's practiced his little speeches in front of a mirror.

 _"We met under more dire circumstances. He was homeless and I felt inclined to help him. There were a lot of obstacles. His name is Thomas. I hope he's watching this, wherever he might be."_

"You son of a..." Thomas whispers.

The girl holds her hand in front of her mouth. ' _I have so many questions right now. Would you be willing to talk about what happened?"_

 _"Our time is too short to explain what happened to us. But I cared for him. As it turned out, not in the way he wanted me to care. Poor Thomas fell in love with me. And he was not able to accept a refusal. He would not leave it alone. It was terrible for both of us. It destroyed any kind of bond I wanted to preserve. He never recovered from it, even when we broke things off. Take a break, I asked him. Sort your life and this feeling out. I fear he never did. He was a criminal and a homeless back then and now he has turned into something worse. His delusional state of mind is harmful."_

"That's not how it went." Thomas can't believe it. He looks over to Farley. " You know that is NOT how it went. Yeah, he wouldn't say it, but he WAS KISSING me back. He didn't- I never did anything he didn't want me- I was the one asking to take a break. I was the one going. That's what I said. That's-" Thomas can't breathe. Like the air is sucked out of the room.

"I know, Thomas." She assures him.

 _"Thomas, if you are watching, "_ Maven says. _"And I sincerely hope you do. Please get help."_

Thomas wants to laugh and cry at the same time. "Please turn this off. Please don't make me watch it all."

She's turning the volume down but doesn't turn it off. For a moment Thomas just stares at the way Maven's mouth moves, telling a sob story that's close enough to the truth but still not completely right.

"We know how it went," Farley says and Thomas forces himself to look at her face. "But they don't care. Look at him. Look what he's doing. He's taking away any credibility from you. No one will ever believe you are not just a scorned unpredictable boy who couldn't accept no for an answer. "

"This isn't happening," Thomas whispers, nails digging into the palms of his hands. "I warned him. I freaking told him-"

"You talked to him since the incident?"

"He called ME." Thomas tries to defend himself. "And before you tell me I am an idiot, YES I KNOW."

A muscle in her neck is twitching as she grinds her teeth. "You _warned_ him?"

"I said I would pull it all out, all the trash between us, not only the old stuff but the new one too. " Thomas pushes his hair back, out of his face. "And when I told Lightning I wrote him a text. Because I hoped.I dunno Farley, **I hoped he'd back down**."

"Thomas how daft are you?" she stares at him with a mixture of anger and bitterness. "You couldn't have made your intentions clearer if you had stood in front of him with a sign. You are jeopardizing our work if you cannot stop running to him. You thought a warning shot would do? He caught the bullet and shoved it down your throat."

He wants to curl together and cry. Or smash something. All he does is bite his lips.

"That's not even the worst." She says. "He's done a good job pulling it up. And you're not finished with humiliation."

"Show me." He says.

"Are you sure?"

"No. But just.." Thomas sighs.

One click away stares at his own face, blue bruise and split lip. Wild and crippled hair cut, dirty clothes. Street rat Thomas has that fuck it look on the mugshot.

"What the..?" He mutters.

"You're officially as bad as all of us now." Farley says , scrolling over the text accompanying the image. "Apparently you were a drug addict, Thomas. It fits the unrequited love and the overbearing care of his Highness."

"Drug what?" His eyes wander over the shot of his slightly younger and bruised face, he can't believe the words he reads. "It was a brick and some other things I smashed!"

Unstable- he reads.

Homeless- at least that's true.

"Seriously, how is this legal? This is all LIES!"

"You think they can't buy everything with their money?" Farley closes the laptop. "Tweaking your reports to go along, so no one believes anything? This is you now, Thomas. The boy who couldn't take a no. You give him sympathy and pity."

"This can't be true." He mutters. "How many people have seen this? This is.. that's..."

"It's very real." Farley grits her teeth.

The river sings of loneliness when he decides to stop. Thomas kicks the dirt and leans down.

With an angry slosh the stone sinks into the water.

Thomas picks the next one and throws it with even more force. "Hey Lightning." He just says, not turning around to meet her eyes.

She just picks a big grey stone next to Thomas , peeling it out of the mud and throws it with so much force he didn't know her spunky small body possess. "Imagine that's his face."

"I can't believe it. I was only defending you and they threw me under the bus." He let's out an angry puff. "How is he okay with saying this shit about me? Drugs? Seriously? That's so low. I am so DONE."

"Full of bullshit, that's why." She says and smashes the stone right into the water. "Words are his thing. It's how he always turns around and creeps under your skin."

"Maven Calore is an asshole!" Thomas yells and throws again. His words echo of the water and get lost in the rushing sound.

" A backstabbing LIAR." Barrow adds.

"Fuck yes, Lightning, he is. I am DONE!"

Their hands are stained with mud when there seems to be no stone left to throw.

"Want to tag along tonight?" she asks.

"Please. I'll be good and don't weigh you down, promise."

He's early at their meeting point. Darkness clouds the roof top. He pulls his hood deep into his face. A faintly familiar tawny head appears in his side when he's done climbing.

"Hey Fish boy," He decides to greet, trying to be at least a little bit confident.

"Hey Inky." Warren says, not even blinking.

Thomas huffs. That name will probably stick for the rest of his life.

" Make room Warren."

The space is barely big enough for two people, but since there isn't much to Thomas and he's used to squeezing through he gets on the railing and stares down.

"Heard about that addict thing." Warren says and Thomas takes a deep breath.

"Yeah who hasn't? "

"Will you get through?"

Thomas glares over suspicious because no one ever really asks anymore and if they do they know he will laugh it off. And he and Fish boy aren't particularly close.

"Eh, have to take a shot." He says in the worst attempt to make a pun.

For the slightest of seconds Thomas can't say if he actually smiles or frowns in the half light. Something in him curls together and waits for an answer that will shut him off. He certainly didn't think there will be a comeback. "Better don't blow it."

"Don't crack me up, Warren." Thomas musters, lips tugging up.

"Why?" Kilorn Warren turns his head to look at Thomas and he catches a flash of green eyes. " I think we're on a roll."

For the first time in forever Thomas really means it when he laughs.

* * *

 **[AN] My beta started low key crack shipping Thomas &Kilorn after this and the next draft. ****( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)**


	11. Get well

Despite him knowing how to run and hide, this is all a lot more complicated. And not just on the personal level. It's not as idealistic and heroic as people make it out to be. He was aware of that. He's not delusional enough to think there is no spilled blood and tears and no casualties on every side. He's also not spiteful enough to take it as given. But he's stupid enough to think he can outrun the trouble. He's not entirely right.

He's no skilled fighter. He lacks prowess, discipline, and many other traits to make it. His only strength is he can endure. He takes physical and verbal hits again and again and somehow he survives.

He learns all of this the hard way the first night after all the lies spread through the screen and he knows he has lost the last chance to make the pretty boy turn around and get off the agenda.

It's deadly silent in the streets. He moves along the shadows of the walls, but eyes seem to be everywhere.

Small strikes, one at a time, but spreading, good old guerilla stuff, because numbers and equipment are never in their favor.

Fish boy is in the bad position to tag along with him, and Thomas is glad because alone his rabbit heart would make him cower and hide. He's so nervous he hears his heartbeat loud and clear through the silence.

"Sorry, you gotta babysit me," Thomas whispers, pressing himself in the cover. "I know you should be on the front lines."

"First night and all. Wouldn't want to scrub you off the floor. "Warren answers and Thomas feels a pang of gratitude.

"Yeah." Is all Thomas says. "Owe you one."

He stares at the sky and listens. No sound. The city has closed its eyes again, it seems, as it does when there's trouble. Like a hedgehog forming a spiky ball.

In the next second, a sound like a thousand gunshots ripples through the streets. Like roaring thunder and lightning bolts twitching over the sky. Thomas remembers the sound from the night he was getting deliberately in trouble.

And with an aching sound, the lights are out. There are three whole blocks without it.

There's red light flaring up. And then another loud crashing sound.

"I guess the eagle has landed," Thomas whispers.

"Wait," Warren says. "The eagle? I thought we agreed on _code blue_."

"No no, we didn't. You just said it." Thomas shakes his head and follows when they venture further.

" _The horse is in the barn_?" Kilorn suggests.

"Nah." Thomas scratches his chin. "But I also like _The turd is in the punch bowl_."

" _We have a splashdown_."

"Valid, dude. I never thought about it."

Everything goes straight and perfect after that. At least that's what it seems like.

From the times he tagged along with the guys smearing the walls and decorating buildings with red suns he knows it's never safe. Not even remotely. And silence can be deceiving. It can be an enemy worse than any weapon.

The air is pushed out of his lung when an arm shoves him back and Thomas freezes in the shadows, half hiding behind a dumpster.

There's a static radio noise and they both hold their breath.

The slightest sound of heavy boots down the road.

He stares at the black gun and the steel.

But then again, one side glance and he knows there will be no fight. They aren't suicidal. Well, Thomas could argue he IS, in some weird twisted way. And the other side has enough bullets to kill every one of them three times.

A pair of green eyes is signaling very clear that the danger is real.

Thomas can only agree silent, hoping he's not looking as panicking as he feels.

That's not the usual patrol. Thomas remembers the police cars creeping over the streets in the dead of night, the floodlights and the noise. This is much quieter. It's like they are waiting instead of running a parameter.

Not part of the plan, Thomas thinks.

That's when the alarm blares in the distance.

"Back." Is all Warren says.

And Thomas runs. He runs like he never has run before, not even on his rooftop nights. He sprints and huffs and his galloping heartbeat is intertwined with the staccato of his feet on the asphalt. They run until the lights fade into a blinking small point, like a star in the night sky. Though in the city there's only smoke and clouds, and the crackling electricity never lets stars shine. It cloaks the sky in too many bright spots, trying to burn it out.

He turns left, running through an alley, kicking a piece of trash when he comes to halt. The fence is at least three meters high and made of wire. He claws into it with force, feeling the breath of the danger on his neck. And also the breath of another person, for that matter.

There's the loudest of bangs. Thomas' hands pull him up. He used to climb fences and walls last summer. Squeezing through tight openings and small holes, like the rat he was. His fingers hold onto the metal weaving with ease. But then something cuts in his hands. Barbed and sharp, the metal claws and fights back. He manages to slide over, and his leg scratches over the metal too. That's when the fence shakes over the force of the grip.

He stumbles and his bloody hands can't hold on. With a crashing sound, he falls, half expecting to break his neck.

All that happens is that he plants face down on the ground. He blacks out for a moment and there's a pain shooting through his leg, confusing, because why the leg and not the head or his bloody hands?

An arm pulls him up, and Thomas balances dangerously on one leg because it freaking hurts.

„What did I say about not wanting to scrub you off the floor?"

There are the slightest amusement and relief flowing through them and Thomas smiles a little. The pain reaches his face through it. A burning sensation.

Good thing my face is ugly already, he thinks to himself, wondering how many times someone has punched him or how often he'd had it like this.

„But maybe I just like being picked up," he says and really can't believe it. It reminds him of the bold senseless days before his heart was black and blue, beaten to a pulp.

„You make it too hard for yourself if you have to sail down like a dying swan."

„I'm open to suggestions." Thomas huffs and treads carefully on his ankle. It feels like someone has bent it the wrong way. He limps through."Cause judging by the long list of lies piling up on me I am pretty sure I have No good taste when it comes to that shit."

That night stretches until people return to the hideout, and Thomas is relieved to find out he's having it the worst of all. He knew there were no casualties, but that doesn't mean every one would be in one piece. Lightning has a scratch on her cheek, but it's nothing bad. At least not physically.

His ankle is sprained, but at least not too bad. Jumping and running is still not in. So the first night is the last. For now.

He still crawls and limps around, restless and feeling useless. Hanging around other people's places and the hideout. He never stays longer than a few hours a day, watching grey clouds and dying leaves on the way back home.

He's part of the core, just not in any vital way. Thomas is like that intestine no one really needs but still has stuck in their body.

Despite his nervousness, people remain friendly and civil, even when he's making the worst jokes and not helping his case with his never closed mouth.

Maybe it's just because he says what everyone thinks anyway.

Some people make it painfully obvious if it was up to them they'd not let him even do that. Maybe out of care, maybe because they are still pissed he kept running to Maven. Bad news spread fast. There's sympathy too because he's clearly as fucked over as any of them.

It's irritating him, and he feels like people watch him with pity now.

Not like anyone would dare to say anything except some few exceptions.

He promises to be smarter and Farley lets him off the hook for now. He doubles his efforts to impress her. Because there's enough punishment for him already.

Lightning and Cameron have some jabs but they are mostly pointed in the other direction. Especially Cookie Cameron.

"Told you, asshole."

"You hate silver people in general. And you had that selfie idea."  
"That was before I knew you were mooning over that..." She searches for the right word in her inexhaustible well of slurs. " You never said his name. Pretty Boy is a debatable term."

"Dunno," Thomas shrugs. "he's chiseled out of evil marvel. Have to give him that."

"Don't have to give him ANYTHING." She scowls.

"Yeah, I get it." And he does. Kind off. "You were a loyal cookie. You deserve that tattoo if I survive all this shit."

"You better, moron. " She rams his shoulder hard and he laughs.

He watches the careful steps, the bruised faces, and tired eyes and he hopes, when this is over, this people won't have fallen. That's not what any of them deserve.

He's particularly worried for Lightning and a little for whatever it is with her and guys.

It's a little Cal sprinkled with a mix of Warren and a big fat portion of unhealthy bullshitting Maven.

People like us, he thinks bitter, don't mesh so well. We can try, but in the end, who's to say we choose the same road?

As someone who was in love and still feels the strings pulling him inside, onto someone telling lies about him, he is an expert for unrequited love. Poor Warren, This is at least not as unhealthy. There's some respect for it. And clearly, there's some other feelsy stuff involved. He thinks of his platonic infatuation for Cookie Cameron and their protective ways. It's just the same with those two. A thunderstorm attracts attention, Thomas guesses, feeling easy around Lightning because she's got the spine he lacks.

Maybe that's just the tied knot of heartache talking.

He's tired of it. He's tired and very, very pissed. If Maven was to walk the same road, he'd probably punch him straight in his face.

His fingers curl into a fist at the thought.

The problem is, he'd feel bad for doing it in the aftermath because the part of Thomas that always regretted leaving can't get over it.

Get over it. What a thing. Tell the ocean to back off or the rain to stop cause you don't have an umbrella.

With his leg injured he returns to his pencils and to his surprise there's so much bottled up inside he can feel it needs to come out.

There's a flaring red light in the sky over the city, and another image of Barrow, all hard lines, and sharp edges.

No more monsters. Only people.

„Seriously tho," Thomas says on evening on that grumpy old couch he spent the hangover night on. He leans back and gnaws at his lip. "how can you say that? It's the better movie?"

„I feel I shouldn't have asked you a question about movies." Barrow answer, drinking from her bottle, shaking her head and sending some longer strands flying.

„Yeah well, it's not Empire strikes back, that's for sure. But that's only cause I haven't seen it as much. „Thomas continues unfazed by the way she shrugs it off. "I have seen this movie so often I can't say if there's anything I won't notice."

"Did you know," Kilorn says from the other side, crossing his legs. Thomas looks up, oddly and painfully reminded of his movie nights with Maven and the unearthly amount of trivia that boy's head used to hold. "Darth Vader is Luke's father."

"Nooo," Thomas exclaims with as much disbelief as he can muster. "Now you SPOILED it, Fish boy."

"I am so sorry."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "As if."

He puts the phoenix down the wall.

Then he takes the ruined shirt and the one with the comic image on it that he got to keep. He stuffs it all in a bag. The last thing that gets in there is a maroon colored book. Bought by another Maven for another Thomas. For a while he thinks he's going to lose it, curling together in a tight ball. In the end, it's just a bag full of things disappearing in the drawer. It's not even the memory. That stays regardless of a picture or a book. Like the pain in his chest.

After a while, there's no more Thomas the addict talk at least. People will remember, he's sure. But one punch was apparently enough for Maven, just making sure Thomas understands he's going to purge him if he ever threatens or attempts to stop him again.

Thomas understands very well.

 ** _You win. I give up. I hope you celebrate._**

Is all he writes and turns the phone off.

In the end, all Thomas would have to do to see Maven's face is to tune in on one of the streams or maybe just the news, seeing him lurk behind his mother while she stands straight and vicious in front of a camera.

There'd be an endless well of those, but he doesn't want to listen to the words anymore.

They are disturbing and well chosen. People eat it up. People find it discouraging. Sometimes he remembers how she threatened him. He can imagine she would be overjoyed to know he was miserable. He was worthless in her eyes. Some part of Thomas gladly believed what she said and engraved it deep in his head.  
He doesn't want to look at this face. Because he knows every crack and every line, every little bit of skin under his fingertips. And he still is not sure if he knows anything. All in for self-hatred, he said to Cal and Lightning, but somewhere, he draws the line. It's time, finally.

It's not only the city. It's everywhere. There's ash in the air and dead tired gray faces on the streets the further this all continues.

Doesn't help there are raids again and his friends have to move every once in a while not to get caught.

No one bothers with a lowlife like him. But that only means that no one will really care if he dies too.

The first time he holds a gun he's seriously freaked out.

"I'll shoot myself, Diana. I swear."

Her eagle eyes are the only reason he hasn't shot himself in the foot in the attempt to NOT shoot himself in the foot. "It's safe."

"That's not making it better." He breaths and his scarred fingers grip the hilt like it's a fragile baby kitten. "I know I asked. But I am fucking scared right now."

The second time is a little better. He's still staring at his hands like he can't believe he's actually doing this.  
The first time he actually pulls the trigger he puts the weapon away like he just burned his hand.  
"Not too bad." Farley says. "Hold it a little higher. And don't look at me like I want to cut off your head."

He doesn't attempt to shoot a lot. He doesn't take it with him. He's not too keen to keep a gun close. But should he ever need one , better to know how to use it, isn't it?

* * *

"If you push the button," Thomas threatens. " I swear, Fish boy, you'll regret it."

"What?" Warren asks innocently enough. "This button?"

"You're last and can't win! Lemme have this!"

"You kicked me off last round."

"That was the heat of the moment." Thomas looks over to his right, were his fellow contestants sit on the bed. His sister's eyes stick to the screen, highly concentrated. Warren's finger lingers over the button that will end his feeble head start. "We need to stick together, Fish boy. Don't let her win. She's the enemy."

"Everything is fair in war and racing games." His sister glares at him with too much mockery.

"Pretty sure that's not how the saying goes, but ok. Just- Nooo!"

A blue thunder erupts on the screen and Thomas curses.

He could almost taste the triumph. With a defeated moan he throws the controller on the bed.

"Don't be a sore loser, Tommy." His sister balances the controller in her hand and smiles when her figure races in the finish with a cheer. She wins all the time. It's unfair.  
"Boys, one of us has to work." Hannah gets off her edge of the bed. " See you later. And please let Tommy win once. Or he pouts."

"Wait, you let me win on purpose?"

"Sometimes." She says and kisses his head. " Cause I love you."

"Ugh." Thomas throws himself back and stretches his legs. It hurts only slightly. "My life is a lie!"

Nothing about some dramatic exclamations once in a while.  
For a while, Thomas just stares at the ceiling listening to the blaring sounds. WHen he looks over he finds Kilorn watching.  
"How's your ankle?"

" Fine, really. But thanks for asking. And..." He feels wrong all over. There's weight piling over the hollow of his chest and with as much disdain as surprise he recognizes he actually enjoys the attention. He remembers the puppy love street rat Thomas held for a boy in a blue sweater. The weeks of pursuing and following on the promise to talk and not let go. He's realizing he might never feel it again. But that he enjoys himself nonetheless. There's something normal and casual. It doesn't need pursuing. It just happens. He's always going for the lost cases, it seems. Cause after that first jokes Thomas is sure enough about himself to know he's somehow interested in a way he hasn't anticipated. At least there are no sneering and dirty fights. And it's not like there is any indication there could ever be something. They have it friendly and punny. It's easy. Thomas takes the laughter and the time and doesn't aim for anything. He's not sure he can take another rejection. How could someone ever be remotely interested? He remembers the feeling very well from all the months he was sneaking in places he didn't belong to be with someone he could never keep. How could a galaxy ever care for one tiny star? He used to ask himself. Some things stick. Even when they shouldn't.

"Thanks for stopping by."

It's not a sun eruption in his chest. But it doesn't have to be. His heart is a bruised and battered old veteran. It will always hurt. He's not willing to let go of the memories, the sunshine, and the kisses, he's even welcoming the remainder of a mouth on his and hands desperately clutching. If only because it tells him a story how not to do things. Maybe sometimes things aren't meant to be. It's no like in movies with things wrapped up neatly after the third act. It's confusing and frustrating.

Get over it, people say. Well, that's not really happening. But maybe someday. Maybe if this is all over and he's finding a happy place. Maybe then he'll call and someone will pick him up, and maybe they'll just spend a normal evening. Or maybe he'll just stay alone. Who knows.

There's something normal and casual. It doesn't need pursuing. It just happens. It happens with Fish boy but it happens with Lightning and Cameron and all the others too. He's part of something. Thomas feels strange acknowledging that. He's never been part of a group. He was the loner. He was the dude dropping out. He was the one holding back, running or refusing. Even when people fed him and treated him like a stray cat, trying to lure him in, he never ever really stayed despite his admiration.

Yeah, life is shitty. Yeah, he's heartbroken and clinging to a crush that'll never happen just cause it makes things a little different. You know, when you can't have something or lose someone, you cling to something that could distract the pain. Rebound or whatever people call it.

Yes, people suffer. And it will only turn worse with every waking hour.

There's still a grain of good things in everything, isn't there? Has to be. Somewhere.

Thomas picks up the controller once more.

"Come on. Revanche. If you let me win on purpose I'll be pissed tho."


End file.
